by Syd Moore
‘It’s not worth thinking on.’ Sam fell silent and took an urgent draught of the wine.
The shadow of unspoken horror had fallen over the room, subduing the atmosphere and making the pair of us twitch uncomfortably and avoid eye contact.
Hunching forward, I watched Sam’s hair fall over his face in its familiar way. His lips, full yet tight and pale, were beginning to tinge Rioja-purple in the soft little wrinkles. He tapped his glass abruptly, put it down, sat back into his chair, then looked at me.
The darkness in his eyes remained. There was activity behind them. Memories, maybe, colliding. Flints sparking. A kaleidoscope of feelings seemed to flicker across his face but I couldn’t tell what they were. The base note of it all was a sadness that radiated out of his body. I had felt it before, but couldn’t discern detail or understand where it came from. The texture was singular and unique. I could feel it now, like a cold fire burning. ‘At least they weren’t children,’ he said, and again I felt like there was more he had left unspoken.
Fleetingly I wondered how he had arrived at that thought, but I let that go too and only commented, ‘What a horrific notion.’
‘It happens you know,’ Sam said, in a low, shaken voice. Breaking my gaze, he reached for the glass of wine, finished it in one gulp and filled it up again.
This was very un-Sam. This was a huge shift. There was indeed a little mystery there, which I would have to try to unpick. It occurred to me again, as it did on these rare occasions when he took me by surprise, that despite the feeling I had of knowing this man very well, to a certain extent he remained a stranger. I knew so little about his past and what he did. I should really make some more effort. We should definitely get to know each other more before anything progressed. When we wrapped up this case and went back to the museum I would cook him a meal and we could talk maybe a little bit about him. I didn’t even know how he had met my grandfather or how Septimus had come to trust him so.
I was considering phrasing this into a suggestion, when he suddenly said, ‘But to a certain extent it explains the phenomenon reported by Mary and the staff. Some of it at least.’
That threw me. I couldn’t remember the ‘it’ to which he was referring.
He frowned at my blankness. ‘The chains clanking, wailing and so on.’ When I didn’t register, his voice rose slightly. ‘The phenomenon reported by staff at La Fleur? Much of it must be now attributed to the plight of Gloria and Ruby.’ I watched him shudder again and knock back more red. ‘Jackson’s uncle’s cellar adjoins the restaurant’s. DS Edwards told me that it looks like the girls had been pulling away some of the wall bricks. Trying to escape. It’s quite possible that the sounds made by them could have carried through to La Fleur: scratches, moans, chains. Acoustics in old buildings are often unconventional.’
‘Yes, you could be right.’ I was glad the practicalities of the case were bringing him back from his dark place.
‘And if these eye conditions explain Mary’s visions we may be on the home straight to a certain extent.’ The animation was back in his eyes. He was happy as long as he wasn’t thinking about himself. ‘Certainly the woman in the bonnet could be explained by that syndrome,’ he went on. ‘And yet, the woman Mary reported seeing in the cellar …’ He stopped momentarily and fixed me with a sharp look. ‘Do you realise she’s remarkably similar to the girl you attest to seeing in the yard? She said the same thing: “Vover vere,” which you translated as “Over there” and then, allegedly, she pointed you in the direction of the captive women.’
I’d come to a conclusion about that this afternoon. ‘Agreed. Which suggests to me that because Mary and I have seen something similar then the probability is that we’ve seen someone. A real woman. I concede that it’s possible Mary’s description might have influenced what I saw. Doctor Roberts was saying that the brain is responsible for interpreting the signals it gets from the eye. It was foggy last night so my brain might have been filling in details that were actually obscured by the mist. And then afterwards, when I gave my description, I was concussed, I think. I can’t really remember the actual sight clearly now. Only my description of it. Is that weird?’
‘Memories aren’t reliable. You must know that. Given the similarities of both your descriptions – thin, pale, reddish – I would wonder if, whether conscious or not, you might have been trying to give credence to Mary’s account.’
‘It’s possible.’ I should check what I’d written down as Mary’s description. ‘Can you pass over my notebook please, Sam? I want to have a look at something.’ It was on the coffee table next to my dirty plate.
I flipped through the pages. On the date we had interviewed Ray and Mary Boundersby I had helpfully written: 30th December. Not a rat. Vover vere. Funnel. Crazy. Toilets. MT. Toilets. Floater. Slutty. Potential fire hazard? Underneath I’d drawn a picture of a stick woman with big hair sitting on a toilet. There was a big red cross over the top of her and lots of childish scribble. Marta Thompson.
‘Anything?’ said Sam. ‘Can I see?’
‘No,’ I told him, and snapped it firmly shut. I really needed a more consistent approach to note-taking. Sometimes I was flakier than a 99.
‘Well, no matter. There’s a good book on London’s murder houses that mentioned Fetter Lane,’ he said, as if he were trying to cheer me up. ‘It’s in the archives.’
‘Go on,’ I said, hiding the notebook down the back of the sofa.
‘Found it but didn’t get to read it today. It was a reference book. They literally took it out of my hands.’
‘Have you googled?’
He smiled, his lips pulling slightly to the left. Such a lovely genuine wonky smile. ‘Of course. The Internet doesn’t have the monopoly on information, as we’re both well aware. Things slip through. Books still work.’
‘Yep.’ That had been so in a previous case, certainly. ‘Early morning for you then tomorrow, Mr Stone. What time do the archives open?’
‘Nine thirty sharp. What are you going to do?’ he asked as my phone began to beep. ‘Laze in bed?’
‘Don’t know.’ It didn’t sound like a bad idea. I pulled out my phone and clocked the text message that had just arrived. Another number I didn’t recognise. I clicked on it and read: Can do tomorrow. 2.30pm.
‘Actually, Sam,’ I told him. ‘It looks like I’ll be visiting Mr Henry Warren.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Warren’s address was very close to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. In fact, I had to pass over the bandstand on my way there and had a good old shudder about Mr Babbington’s chopped-off privy parts.
The building where Henry Warren worked was grand and old like most of its tall, elegant neighbours. According to the website, the firm specialised in commercial disputes across corporate/chancery and offshore, whatever that meant. Something legal, I assumed, as it was referred to as a ‘chambers’. The pompous title always made me think of bed-pans and Goosey Gander.
Warren, himself, turned out to be a bit of a Boris Johnson type of bloke. He’d gelled a splat of gingery-blond hair into submission by pressing it flat against his head in a 1920s schoolboy style. There was something about him that reminded me of Charlie back in the office. Both had a similar curve to their gut and a toothy, gappy grin. Red cheeks too. But while Charlie’s made him look like he was on the verge of a heart attack, Henry Warren’s gave the impression of frank health. The cut-glass accent was pronounced and he had a smothering, double-fisted handshake.
He told me to take a chair, braying like a donkey, then apologised for only sparing me a couple of minutes as something unforeseen had come up: he was waiting for a phone call that he would ‘simply have to take’.
I thanked him for agreeing to see me, in spite of this, and promptly got down to business. No point messing with small talk.
‘We have been investigating La Fleur,’ I said. ‘Some of the odd things that have been going on there.’
‘Not sure I’d classify them as “odd”. Outrageous per
haps.’ He jerked a pink cuff out of his sleeve and straightened the cufflink. Gold, I noted.
‘Indeed.’ I bowed my head in acknowledgement. ‘You’re right. There have been some shocking revelations.’
‘You can say that again. A brothel right next to old Boundersby’s attempt at self-aggrandisement!’ He let go a little smirk. ‘So vulgar. Must be quite a blow to the poor fellow – he’s tried so hard to distance himself from the gutter.’ I reckon he would have been grinning broadly if I hadn’t already announced I was working for Ray.
I decided he was a prick and had probably been a bully when younger. Big guys like Henry, rugger buggers, full of the superlative confidence that money and wealth bring, always seemed to end up in business, finance or law. Somewhere they could shout, harangue or argue for a living.
‘Oh, it wasn’t a brothel,’ I said, keen to burst his bubble. ‘They kidnapped girls and chained them up in the cellars.
Made them do sex acts. Raped them.’ That’s what happened. No point beating around the bush. Horror was horror. Warren should know what had really gone down. There were no jokes to be made about it or smirking to be done.
‘Oh?’ he said, eyes wide. Two even redder rashes appeared in the middles of his cheeks. ‘I had no idea that sort of thing was …’ He swallowed hard and broke eye contact.
For a moment I wondered if I had given too much away. DS Edwards had told me not to speak about the case.
‘I mean, that’s what I heard,’ I added. ‘It goes on, you know, that sort of thing. Everywhere. But actually despite the utter heinousness of that shit storm that’s not what I’m here about. I wanted to ask you about La Fleur being haunted.’
‘Oh yes?’ he asked and crossed his legs under the desk. Monographed socks appeared over super-shiny lace-ups. Bet he didn’t polish them himself.
I eyed him carefully ready to note his reaction. ‘Where did you hear about it?’
‘Me? Hear about it? Haunted?’ His face was more relaxed now, full of rosy smile. Possibly he was relieved to be on safer ground: ghosts were easier to deal with than sex traffickers. I certainly knew which frightened me more.
He looked like he was waiting for me to clarify so I skimmed my notebook for some detail to hook on to. ‘Did you tell anyone at the restaurant that it was haunted?’
‘Me?’ he said, then narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’
‘Well, your name has been mentioned in this regard.’
Right on cue his phone started ringing.
‘I’m sorry, Ms Strange,’ Henry Warren gestured to his desk. ‘One moment. I’ll have to get this. Do you mind popping outside? Confidential. I’ll see you presently.’ He waited for me to leave.
I grabbed my bag and made towards the door.
‘Denise will take care of you,’ he called. Then he returned to the phone and I heard him say, ‘Johnny, what’s the problem …?’
Denise was at her desk. Neat and tidy and antique. Like the desk. She smiled with professional courtesy and asked if I’d like a coffee while I waited for Mr Warren. Might as well, I thought.
Indulging me in professional small talk the PA commented on the mildness of the day as she guided me to a sofa, asked how I took it, then went off to fetch refreshments.
A coffee table was piled with copies of Country & Town House magazine, the Lady and Good Housekeeping. I had no desire to read any of them so turned my attention to the olde worlde charm of the antechamber which was represented by lots of old pictures that covered the walls. Some were paintings others photographs, sepia-tinted. Above my head was a pencil sketch of Lincoln’s Inn Fields as it had been maybe three hundred years ago, complete with horses and carriages. Beside it was an engraving of another building in the square that I had passed coming here – a magnificent portico built in the classical style with huge columns. The Royal College of Surgeons apparently. Right above this was another picture, which at first glance seemed of a different genre to the rest – a pencil drawing of a skeleton suspended in a curved arch. I had had an odd experience with a skeleton recently so it caught my eye. The cranium had been sketched in a stylised manner to give the impression the head was grinning. The eye sockets, though empty, were slanted to make the skull look angry. Underneath it a caption read, The Skeleton of Elizabeth Brownrigg in Surgeon’s Hall.
‘Ah-ha!’ Denise offered me a matching ceramic cup and saucer. ‘MT went straight for that too.’ Her face was angled towards the picture. When she registered my slight bewilderment, she added, ‘Sorry. I assumed you were a friend of Marta’s. You’re from La Fleur, aren’t you? Henry mentioned your appointment …’
‘Oh yes,’ I said vaguely, took the coffee from Denise and sipped it.
‘That’s her. The skeleton.’ With her now free hand Denise pointed to another portrait above the grinning skull. ‘When she was alive.’
For a moment, I was confused as to whether she was talking about MT but did as I was told and directed my gaze to the indicated picture. It comprised two sections. At the top was a plain portrait of a sneering woman, supposedly this Elizabeth Brownrigg, dressed in a corset dress, full skirt, shawl and wide-brimmed hat on top. Beneath her a scene had been sketched: a dingy room with stairs descending into a subterranean space. In there the Brownrigg woman was depicted arching her back, arm high, whip in hand about to beat a strangely familiar figure – that of a thin frail girl, dressed in sackcloth, long dark hair and sores around her mouth.
I gave a start as I took in the detail.
Oh god.
The stairs, the hook, the cellar. The dimensions of the room looked remarkably similar.
I swallowed and stepped back, my heart beginning to pound at a rate. ‘My goodness.’
‘MT had exactly the same reaction,’ Denise said, and tactfully removed the trembling cup from my hands before I started spilling the coffee. ‘It’s all silly superstitions, I know. You can’t help it sometimes can you, but I did wonder if it might account for some of the bad luck you’ve had at La Fleur,’ she said. ‘It being old Brownrigg’s house.’
The effect her words had on me immediately alarmed Denise.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘You’ve gone quite pale, my dear. Let me get you a glass of water.’
I sat down heavily on the sofa.
And tried to slow my brain.
Had this Elizabeth Brownrigg murdered that girl?
That girl who was hooked up like Seth had been? Who looked shockingly like the girl in the yard?
No, I stopped myself. How friggin’ stupid is that?
That was a coincidence, that’s all. And anyway the spectre that had reportedly been seen in the yard was a woman with a wide-brimmed hat. A bonnet.
I turned my face slowly back to the portrait of Elizabeth Brownrigg. A woman whose description pretty much matched the spectre’s.
But she was a symptom, surely, of Charles Bonnet syndrome.
But then hadn’t MT seen this bonnet-clad spectre too?
And hadn’t MT been here?
Yes, she had. Denise had just told me.
MT had been here and she had seen the picture of Elizabeth Brownrigg.
And yet the front-of-house hostess had not mentioned that to us.
In fact, she’d not told Mary or Ray or anyone else either. But the likeness of the apparition she’d seen bore a striking similarity to the ghost she’d described gliding past her in the toilet.
To the ghost, she had said she’d seen.
‘Blimey,’ I said, and slapped my forehead. Things were starting to become glaringly obvious.
‘There you go,’ said Denise and bent down with the glass of water. ‘Have a sip. Are you all right?’
My breaths were still coming in short and fast. ‘I didn’t know about Brownrigg. That La Fleur was once her house.’
‘I’m surprised,’ she said, then qualified. ‘I would have thought that MT would have—’
‘Yes,’ I said, interrupting. ‘When did she see that? MT? Can you remember? Why was she here?�
�
‘Oh,’ Denise looked briefly uncertain of herself. ‘She’s been dating Mr Warren on and off for a few months now. I don’t think it’s serious. At least not on his part, but she seems keen.’
‘Really? How long has she been seeing him? When did she notice this?’ I gestured to the wall.
‘Now, let me see,’ said Denise. ‘I remember that first time, she’d been rather upset about waiting for Mr Warren. I don’t think she had a lot of time to spare. But he’d had a long meeting that went over. Now who was it with?’ she muttered out loud and flitted back to her desk. ‘If I can remember that, then I can find the date.’ She unlocked her laptop and began to browse. ‘Ah yes, Purkiss and West, that’s right.’
My mind was clicking over so quickly that I wasn’t paying full attention to the way I was speaking and my words were coming out a bit rushed and whiney. ‘When was it? Can you find out please?’ I grabbed my notebook and tried to trace through my notes to see when Mary and Ray had told us all the strangeness began.
‘Here we go,’ said Denise, bringing up Warren’s diary. ‘Yes, it was early in the new year.’
‘When? Please? Exactly? Can you get me the date?’ I asked, finding the right notebook entry.
Here it was: Mary had seen the first apparition in the cellar in December. The one that was all thin and bloody. I cast a glance at the engraving of the girl strung up to the hook. She had a chain round her neck too. Chained up like the girls next door. The past repeating itself. Shit. How awful. But that wasn’t the issue here, was it?
Think, Rosie, I told myself. When did Mary tell the staff about the woman in the bonnet? I needed to know when she went public with her confession. I turned over a page and there it was.
According to my notes the sighting had taken place a week later on Friday 6 January. Then there was nothing until … I paused, flicked a few pages forward then took a breath … There was nothing else until MT saw that floater in the toilet.
‘Here you go,’ said Denise. ‘I thought it was January but it wasn’t. It was the beginning of February. The third.’ She smiled triumphantly.