The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 1 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  “A poetic end, at least. Face down in a public well.”

  He gazed at me in blank astonishment, but he seemed to be startled rather than shocked.

  “A public sewer would have been more fitting,” he said savagely, and sat down. “But, no matter for that. I came to see you on other business.”

  I waited again. At last he said, putting his hand against his wallet suggestively: “Is it quite impossible for you to tell me why my grandmother sent for you?”

  “Quite impossible.”

  “Was it about my cousin Wroth?” he persisted. He appeared not to have heard my reply, but all the same his hand moved the wallet until it showed above his pocket.

  “I am not at liberty to say, Mr. Wroth,” I said, somewhat severely. “. . . For any price.”

  He looked at me closely, read my face aright, and his hand fell away from his pocket. He seemed obscurely pleased at my attitude.

  After a moment’s thought, he reached into his greatcoat pocket and pulled out a bulky envelope. As he handed it to me, I discerned a slight tremor in his hand.

  “Read that,” he said. “Then tell me if it is why you were hired by my grandmother.”

  I opened the envelope. It was addressed to Mr. Oliver Wroth in the same neat hand that had written to his grandmother. I drew out a sheet of paper which was unsigned. It proved to be a copy only of another receipt for “services rendered” to Lord Wroth. They proved to be highly original services, and prodigiously obscene. The original of this receipt had been signed by Lord Wroth, an enclosed note explained.

  I raised my eyes from the paper and looked into the impassive face of young Wroth. The light eyes glittered faintly, otherwise the handsome face was immaculately composed.

  “How much do they demand?” I asked.

  “There’s more, apparently,” he said between his teeth.

  “But how much do they ask?”

  “£20,000. For all the receipts together. We have to pay them by Saturday or they will publish the details. Once they do, my cousin is finished in society. His chances of making a tolerable match are nil.”

  “The demand came with this letter?”

  Wroth smiled unpleasantly. “Yes.”

  “You have the letter?”

  His smile grew even more unpleasant.

  “No. The messenger allowed me to read it, then took it back with him.”

  “What kind of a man was this messenger?”

  “A heavily armed man,” he answered wryly.

  “Did he have bright red hair and eyes like poker-ends?”

  “No. He was a grey-faced man.”

  “What did he say exactly?”

  “Very little. He just delivered the letter. I rather think he knew nothing of the matter himself.”

  “So there’s no proof of demand,” I said.

  “None at all. Deuced clever, really.”

  “And there’s nothing more to it than this?” I asked sharply.

  The question took him by surprise. A look almost of alarm flashed through his eyes and his mouth tightened perceptibly.

  “Is this not sufficient?” he asked bitterly. “You know English society. Let a thing be rumoured and it can be passed over. A man can even acquire a kind of clandestine fame. But let it once become public property and a man is as good as dead. My cousin Wroth, at the moment, passes for a brainless young eccentric like a good many of his kind. Many young men of today lack the resources which can lead to a cure imposed by self-discipline – ” He gestured towards the paper with distaste. “But once that nastiness becomes common knowledge, there’s not a good family in England will be on nodding terms with us, let alone marry into us.”

  “Where is his lordship now?”

  “At home.”

  “Where was he last night?”

  “Last night? Why, at home.”

  “All the night?”

  “To my knowledge. I was myself in London.”

  “In London?”

  “At the Italian Opera House. I went to hear Catiani sing. She has a damned fine voice,” he added appreciatively.

  “She keeps it in a damned fine chest,” I said.

  He looked complacent. “It’s not too difficult to open, either, if you have the right key,” he said modestly. I gathered that he had already tampered with the lock.

  “And d’Urfey?” I asked.

  “What of him?”

  “Isn’t he generally inseparable from your cousin?”

  I let the implication stand, letting it brew a little. He scarcely seemed to notice.

  “Generally,” he said. “But not last night, it seems.” I tapped the paper.

  “Do you intend paying this?”

  “If I can lay my hands upon the money.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Not impossible.”

  “Your grandmother will no doubt – ”

  “No!” he said sharply. “She’s not to be bothered by it. I can raise the colour elsewhere.”

  “Oh?”

  “I can borrow it. From the Jews, perhaps. From friends.”

  “Why not go to the Bow Street Police?” I asked reasonably.

  “I can’t,” he said simply. “I have to protect grandmama,” and added, as an afterthought: “and my cousin.”

  I gestured towards the paper again. “But if this is all there is to it – in a matter of this sort, they would say neither muff nor mum – ”

  “No!”

  There was a strained pause. When he spoke, it was with difficulty.

  “I can’t. Word would get about in the way it does. The scandal would kill grandmama, and ruin us all.”

  He raised his head arrogantly, his pride mastering his conscience.

  I could not shake off a belief that there was something more behind his refusal. Nauseating as this receipt was, I felt there was a worse matter on his mind.

  I said as much.

  He flushed hotly.

  “There’s nothing worse. What could there be that’s worse than . . . that!” He flicked the paper from my hand and ground his foot upon it angrily.

  Suddenly he looked at me in an almost beseeching manner. Strain and anxiety showed plainly in his face. Only pride kept him from complete supplication.

  “Can you help me? It’s what I came for.”

  “I might be able to,” I said cautiously.

  XII

  The Temple of Health stood aloof from the activity of the Close, like a ship pulled high on a beach, away from the invading waves. The windows looked as empty as the house behind it.

  The house was empty, I knew that well enough, for I had kept it under observation for the last twenty-four hours. Like the shop in Barnard’s Row, it had been abandoned with scant ceremony, its occupants fled God knew whither.

  Having kept such a close watch on it without a sign of life, I had almost decided to abandon it. But an odd demon of obstinacy kept me at my post. Although I felt that the house had revealed all the secrets it held, I believed that patience would still reward me. For one thing, I was sure that the book I had taken from the strong-box was a key to the mystery. When this key was found to be missing, others would come seeking it. They would naturally come here to this house. So I continued my vigil.

  I wondered if they would have understood the book better than I did. So far, my own attempts to break the code had been lamentably unsuccessful. Apart from one or two unimportant details, the book was all Greek to me – except, of course, that I speak a passable Greek.

  Daylight was fading and I was on the point of turning away, when a slight movement in an attic window caught my eye. For a moment I wondered if I had imagined it but, as I looked more closely at the window, I saw that a shutter was, indeed, a trifle ajar. At my last inspection it had been fast tight.

  Within five minutes I was over the wall, through the passage, and climbing through the back upstairs window. It had been conveniently opened for me by a visitor who had left his tracks clear away from the alley wall.r />
  Padding soft as a cat through the upper rooms, I gained the front stairs. I stood, listening hard, straining for a sound from above or below.

  An almost imperceptible creak from the landing above alerted me. I edged back into a recess, my hand easing my sword from its scabbard.

  A leg appeared on the bend of the stairs, feeling for the tread. It was an elegant, well-turned, almost delicate leg. A second after, the torso appeared and a moment later I was looking into the smooth face of the young Lord Wroth. In the obscure light, it was truly amazing how much menace was packed into that slight frame. The face, with its fresh, translucent skin, looked at the same time to be old and drawn. The eyes were drained of feeling. He had, I felt, undergone some great emotional crisis in these past few hours.

  Like myself, his hand was on the hilt of his sword, yet for some reason he neglected to draw it as I stepped out of the alcove, my sword at the ready.

  I gave him a slight bow.

  He stared at me with a curious, blind stare. I could swear that he hardly saw me and certainly did not know me.

  “What are you doing here, my lord?”

  He continued to stare at me, apparently trying to fix me into his scheme of things.

  “Do you remember me, my lord?”

  He swallowed, frowned, and then nodded. The eyes began to come alive. He flushed painfully and the mad glitter swept through his eyes, and was gone as quickly. His eyes were then as blank as before.

  “What are you doing here, my lord?” I asked again, patiently.

  “What are you doing here?” he countered vacantly. His fingers began to fret at the hilt of his sword, yet he made no move to withdraw it . . . for the moment.

  He was obviously never going to answer me. He behaved like a man whose mainspring had broken. I felt it time to administer a shock.

  “Who killed him, my lord?”

  “Killed?” he echoed. The word hung like dust in the air.

  “Who killed Tom d’Urfey?”

  The eyes tilted suddenly and his whole body twitched convulsively. The sword rattled from its scabbard and then scraped along the wall as it dropped to his side. His body sagged dejectedly.

  “I don’t know,” he said dully and sighed deeply.

  It was time to administer a second shock.

  “Perhaps it was the magician?”

  His head reared back and his eyes rolled wildly. For a moment it looked as if he was going to jump over my head and flee. He shrank back against the wall.

  “Asclepius,” I said. “Alias ‘Cunning’ Murrell.”

  He looked over my shoulder fearfully. I half wondered if he expected to see Murrell’s mutilated body materialize before him. Then his eyes seemed to clear, the superstitious awe faded, and he looked at me contemptuously, but with a greater awareness in his eyes, almost an interest.

  “But then,” I said gently, “the good Doctor could hardly have come back from the dead to avenge himself, could he? Despite his powers.”

  He was regarding me with a definite interest now.

  “So it must have been somebody else who murdered your friend,” I said.

  He breathed out slowly.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “. . . Yes.”

  “Why did you come here, my lord?” I asked again.

  The interest in his eyes faded. Once more he repeated my own question. This time, however, I got a distinct impression that he was addressing himself.

  With a shock I realized that he was addressing himself. He had no clear idea of his purpose there.

  “Were you looking for something?”

  He frowned.

  “What did you hope to find here?”

  The frown deepened.

  I nodded towards the upper regions. “You didn’t find it there?”

  “. . . Not there,” he said slowly.

  “Down below, perhaps?”

  He looked at the lower stairs as though he had never seen them before. Since quite a lot of his pleasuring must have been done between these walls, his lack of comprehension now was highly disconcerting, almost unnerving.

  Like a sleepwalker, he began to descend the stairs, a foundling strayed, the sword trailing behind him like a discarded plaything. He seemed to have forgotten my presence. I followed a few paces behind, to see where his steps would lead him, to discover what part of the house would revive his memory.

  The trailing sword looked harmless enough in his loose grasp but, remembering his dexterity on the lawn, I kept a tight grip on my own weapon.

  It was an eerie experience to walk through those lewd rooms behind this once favoured customer, who responded in no way to what he saw. With his fair, almost angelic face, he looked like a scrubbed, country innocent, a Christian choirboy who had wandered, by chance, into some heathen temple.

  Walking thuswise, we reached the reception hall. By this time, the last of the daylight had drained from the sky. The hall was a gloomy cavern of marble and porphyry.

  Wroth stood in the hall, at a total loss. He looked around him in a dazed sort of way. Nothing stirred in his eyes.

  Then he stiffened suddenly and I stiffened with him. He had heard the faint whine of the iron gate as it swung open. Feet paused before the steps, then climbed them steadily. A key turning in the lock and a streak of dirty twilight swept along the floor as the door fell open.

  But long before the door was fully wide, I had pushed Wroth into the safety of a small alcove. I leaned forward slightly, trying to see who had entered. Young Wroth leaned limply against my arm. I could feel him trembling, and his breath was short and shallow. It must, I felt, quickly betray us. I put a hand over his mouth. He struggled for a while, the whites of his eyes alarmingly prominent. Then he seemed to relax, his breathing loosened and I myself breathed more freely. He was not, I realized, in any way afraid. He was, rather, monstrously excited.

  Not that my fears for our position were immediately justified. Whoever had entered showed no interest in our hiding place. He had walked purposefully in the direction of the back premises where he struck a tinder and lit a candle. His head disappeared below stairs and a moment later I heard a succession of doors open and shut in the cellars.

  There were a few minutes of strained and agonizing silence. Then from below came a muffled oath and a heavy object crashed to the ground. At once, the man came running up the stairs as if the Devil and all his fiends were in pursuit of him. The front door swung open and crashed thunderously behind him.

  The reverberations echoed for a few seconds, to be followed by an uncanny silence. Young Wroth gasped like a man surfacing from deep water. He shook himself like a dog. For the first time I saw a real sign of intelligence in his eyes.

  “Pelham,” he said hoarsely. The name shot out of him like a cork from a bottle.

  Pelham? The Pelham? The notorious Sir Harry Pelham?

  “Pelham?” I asked.

  “‘Gambling’ Pelham.”

  The Pelham. Sir Harry Pelham. What was his connection with this house? I knew he owned a gambling-hell and was reputed to own shares in Mother Wells’ brothel, but what was his relationship to Godbold (or Murrell)? A very close one, by what I could judge. He had moved around this house with great familiarity.

  I turned to Wroth to question him further, but his eyes were glazed over once again and he had retreated into his own private world.

  I decided to investigate below stairs. But what to do with Wroth? I thought it best not to leave his lordship to his own devices. I would be safer with him under my eye. If he came to his “senses”, I might well be his next duelling partner. Taking him by his sword arm, I led him to the head of the cellar steps. He came along as docile as a child. In my own sword hand I carried the candlestick, hastily thrown down by Sir Harry in his flight.

  We began to descend the stairs . . .

  The first room that we came to was the kitchen, a vast place cluttered with the paraphernalia of a well-run establishment. My candle reflected a forest of gleaming copper and d
ull pewter. There was nothing untoward in its appearance, all was exactly as I had last seen it.

  Passing along a short corridor, we came to another door and behind this, I remembered, lay a small office. This, too, was as I had last seen it, save in one particular.

  Beyond the office lay yet another room – a room that had not been in evidence at my last visit.

  A panel was drawn back in the wall, giving access to a sort of priest-hole. It looked to be no larger than a handsome tomb. Which is what it now was. Sepulchral candles glimmered beyond the wainscot. A rank, stale smell mingled with the headier scent of incense.

  I felt Wroth’s arm tense beneath my hand and his knuckles whitened on his sword-hilt. My own hand circled his arm in a tight grip as I waited for his next move.

  Nothing happened, save that he went limp again. Like a man in a dream he moved forward, under the gentle pressure of my hand. The candlelight flickered as we bent to pass into the secret chamber, then it steadied, and the light magnified with a startling brilliance as the rays were reflected from the innumerable silver and copper ornaments that decked the room. For a moment we were dazzled, then our astonished eyes took in the full, garish horror of the scene.

  Gaudy coloured idols stood upon pedestals, surrounded by flowers of a monstrous vulgarity. Strings of glass beads, winking baubles and cheap rosaries were hung from a number of gold crucifixes. A Virgin, with a face as black as midnight, exposed her breasts to an infant Jesus of equal darkness. In one corner stood an enormous wooden cross, surmounted by a black tricorn hat. A skull with brilliants in its eye-sockets grinned at us from beneath it.

  It was a foul, obscene, and heathen funeral chamber, and it produced a strong impression on my mind. What effect it had on young Wroth’s less regulated senses can only be imagined. His arm trembled like an aspen beneath my fingers.

  The centrepiece of these gaudy trappings sat enthroned in a chair. “Cunning” Murrell, his ghastly, lifeless eyes staring beneath his magician’s hat, sat waxen-faced, dressed in a robe covered in strange hieroglyphics, his body in a state of rapid decomposition.

  The heat of the candles and the rancid odour of the corpse filled the room to turn your stomach.

  It was clear now why Murrell’s murder had not been reported. In the eyes of his servant, the poor, half-savage Negress, her master had not died. He sat here, among her baubles, awaiting resurrection!