by Joan Lock
‘That business at the lake! What a triumph for you! Just before the explosion I saw your Chief Inspector stomping about in a fury looking for you.’
‘I know. I was hiding behind some musicians and their instruments,’ he admitted.
She chortled out loud in the way he’d never heard another woman laugh.
‘Wonderful! Well, you should have seen his face when the bandstand went up. A mixture of astonishment and, yes, relief. Even he must have patted you on the back after that!’
‘Nearly,’ Best admitted ruefully. ‘Almost.’
They both laughed, then stopped and glanced at each other carefully.
‘Almost,’ she said quietly. ‘I can just imagine.’
‘He thinks,’ Best confided more seriously, ‘that you—’
‘Being h’artistic,’ she put in.
‘Being h’artistic, might know where this quote comes from.’
He handed her a copy of the telling phrase.
She perused it for a moment and murmured, ‘“News from all nations”? Seems familiar, seems familiar. But …’
‘You need time?’
‘Yes, and to consult some books.’
‘Well, I’ve got this to read –’ he pulled out the file Littlechild had given him – ‘if it’s all right that I sit here for a while?’
‘Of course, my old friend. I’ll get Jessie to bring you in some tea.’
Smith was depressed. Nothing was working out as he had hoped. The stationmaster had not recognized the lady in the photograph. Neither had he remembered any such woman being surrounded by trunks the previous evening, although Smith wondered whether he saw much of anything, tucked away in his little office.
Alf Berry, the ticket collector, was his white hope, but he remembered nothing either. It turned out that he was new, replacing one recently arrested with others for various fraudulent little ticketing schemes. Alf was too busy, learning the job, to notice what was usual among passengers and what was not.
‘We’ve had a plague of pickpockets on the trains so I’ve been mostly keeping an eye open for suspicious persons,’ he offered helpfully.
Other possible sources of information were the guards who signalled with their flags when their trains were ready to leave then retreated to their luggage vans. If anyone would know, they should, Smith decided. But there were so many of them to track down.
Smith was fast losing faith in his bright idea that Alice had fled via Ally Pally. Besides, it was dark and late and the last trains would be leaving soon.
The young guard, now raising his flag to wave away the train presently getting up steam, had been eager to assist, which was a change. Indeed, he had been overcome with excitement with the very idea of talking to a Scotland Yard detective. But he hadn’t known anything.
All Smith’s effort had been for nothing. He’d spent a lot of money on cabs getting here. He’d have to fight to get it back – particularly if his quest was in vain.
And there was another night away from Betsy and the kids in prospect. Maybe she was right. He should become a private detective like some of the others had done. More money and less worry.
What to do next? Smith wandered disconsolately into the now empty waiting room. At least it was more sheltered there than on the draughty platform, and even warmed a little by the gas jets. Why it should be this cold on an August evening, he didn’t know. Maybe he was tired. He knew that he ought to trek back to Wood Green, and on foot to save money, but didn’t know where he was going to find the energy, never mind the will.
The door creaked and the first passengers for the next train began to enter. He avoided their eyes, not wishing to become involved in polite chat. Someone sat beside him and began clearing their throat. Drat.
‘Excuse me,’ said a young and nervous voice.
Smith looked up reluctantly. It was Alf Berry, the trainee ticket collector.
‘About them trunks.’
Smith sat up. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, I do remember some. But they weren’t with a lady. Well, not the ones I saw. They was with a man.’
‘A one-eyed man?’ exclaimed Smith, slapping the surprised young fellow on the back.
The lad’s eyes widened. ‘Yes! ’Ow did you know that?’
‘Ah,’ said Smith with a broad and relieved smile, ‘has nobody told you that Scotland Yard detectives know everything?’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Hallo young Smith! You look happy!’
The exclamation caused Smith to pause in his headlong rush back up the stairs into Alexandra Palace. Coming down the stairs, now almost level with him, was Mr Coxwell, the famous aeronaut.
In truth, Smith would rather have continued his dash to the telegraph room. He wanted the Yard to know what was on. But Coxwell had been kind to him, not to mention lending him the money to get the train back to the palace after his involuntary balloon flight.
The two men stopped and exchanged greetings, Smith explaining that he had just had a wonderful lead in an investigation and was anxious to pass on the news to his colleagues.
‘Well, I mustn’t hold up the law,’ laughed Coxwell.
‘Look,’ said Smith, blushing, ‘I haven’t forgotten the money you loaned me. I’ve put in a docket to the receiver to claim it back and—’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, my lad. There’s no hurry. Look, why don’t I come along with you – we can talk as we go. There’s a favour I want to ask.’ He registered Smith’s anxious glance. ‘Don’t worry, I can walk fast, too.’ He smiled. ‘It was fortuitous bumping into you. We’re both in luck today.’
Smith hurtled back down the stairs towards the station after he left Coxwell, where the nine thirty evening train was about to leave for King’s Cross from Alexandra Palace Station.
The guard, a stocky, dignified man with an upright stance and a stiff neck, was just completing the downswing of his green flag to indicate to the driver that all carriage doors were closed and he could therefore commence the journey.
He retreated into his van and was reaching for the door to close it when he saw the tall and handsome young man speeding recklessly in his direction. He put out his arm to ward him off but as he ran Smith pulled out his warrant. He held it before him and called, ‘Police, urgent business,’ and fell into the carriage, knocking the guard over as he did so.
The train had already started to move so Smith pulled the door shut behind him before reaching down to help the indignant man to his feet.
‘How dare you …’
‘Sorry, sir!’ Smith panted. ‘Vital Scotland Yard matter.’ He brushed the man’s previous pristine uniform jacket and said, ‘In fact, you are the very man I wish to consult.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, I’ll just get my breath back then I’ll explain.’
Well, that worked. The guard was sufficiently puzzled and distracted to forget the indignity. The man from the Yard wished to consult with him. I’ve learned something else from Best, Smith thought.
‘Oh, no, it was a lady what was with the trunks,’ the guard insisted. ‘A middle-aged lady.’ He paused. ‘A fellow did help her and the porter on with them, but I reckoned he was just being polite.’ He shrugged. ‘’Cos he went off when I took over, so that’s what I reckoned.’
‘Did he have one eye?’
‘Didn’t get a good look at him, sorry.’ He pulled back his shoulders importantly. ‘Too busy seeing the trunks stowed right and attendin’ to my other duties such as the safety of the passengers.’ He shook his head. ‘Tell you what, though, I have to admit I thought it a bit peculiar, a mighty bit peculiar, in fact, for a person to be leaving from this station with all that stuff.’
Smith nodded attentively.
‘I means, look at it like this. If you lives at Wood Green or Bowes Park and wants to go to King’s Cross, you’ve got Wood Green or Bowes stations. If you want to go east, or down to the City, then there’s Palace Gates, and if it’s one of those posh houses in Muswell Hill you�
�re going from, well then, there’s Muswell Hill Station, isn’t there? And that’s one stop nearer where you’re going to so it would be daft to come ’ere.’
‘And she was going to?’ asked Smith, trying to suppress his impatience. Once ‘consulted’ there was no stopping the man.
‘I was just coming to that, wasn’t I,’ the guard said a little huffily. The train trundled to a halt at Muswell Hill and he jumped out to fulfil his platform duties.
When he rebounded, flag-waving done, Smith became almost obsequious. ‘You’ve been extremely helpful,’ he said as the door shut once again. ‘You were saying, she got out at …?’
‘Well that’s another funny thing. You would have thought, wouldn’t you, with all that luggage, that it would have been King’s Cross? If you was going somewhere nearer on this route, well, you might as well get a cart from home to take you there.’
Smith held his clenched fists down by his sides and kept the eagerly attentive smile on his face. ‘But, it was in fact,’ he put in, ‘somewhere nearer?’
It obviously was, but at this rate the man might not tell him in time for him to jump off the train to make enquiries at that station.
‘Yes, it was.’ The guard shook his head in wonderment. The train was slowing down again.
‘You wouldn’t guess how many stops she went?’ He shook his head and grinned knowingly. ‘Unbelievable!’
Smith’s smile was crumbling and the urge to strangle the man became overwhelming.
The train had stopped. The guard was about to alight. Smith grasped his sleeve. ‘How many stops!’ he pleaded. ‘It’s important!’
‘Two, only two,’ said the little man as he stepped onto the platform of Highgate Station.
The guard quickly became hidden behind disembarking passengers.
Smith dodged between them shouting. “That means here? She got off here?’
But if the little railway servant heard, he gave no sign before stepping back on board, leaning out and raising his green flag once more.
‘Here?’ yelled Smith again.
He was bringing his flag down fast. ‘Course,’ he grinned smugly. ‘Course. Thought you would have worked that out. You being a smart detective an’ all.’
A beautifully designed circular fell from the Dubois file – another case he’d been advised to research for possible enemies – as he opened it, reminding Best what an unusual case it had been.
Three men – Wood, an Englishman, and Frenchmen Dubois and Arbre – had placed advertisements in foreign newspapers, announcing a forthcoming London exhibition of works by Continental artists.
They had also sent the aforesaid beautiful circulars, designed by Wood, who was himself an artist, to many of the leading European painters suggesting that they submit works.
The artists responded in droves. Any doubts were quickly allayed by the receipt from the Exhibition Executive Committee, thanking them for their splendid exhibits and assuring them they would be kept informed of progress regarding dates and venue.
One might imagine that rewards in this type of ruse were small. But many of the newly wealthy middle classes had grand, new houses with large expanses of wall in need of adornment. The same people had portfolios in need of filling with etchings and watercolours, for guests to admire when relaxing after dinner with a glass of port. Therefore, the market for quality art was thriving and, of course, if you could buy quality more cheaply …
It wasn’t until some time later, when details of the exhibition arrangements had failed to emerge, that Scotland Yard began receiving complaints.
Inspector Maurice Moser and Best, when a sergeant, had been put on the case, or handed the docket as police parlance had it.
Not surprisingly, they found that the birds had flown from the addresses given, so they attacked the problem in a more oblique fashion. They perused the Yard’s list of receivers of stolen goods. From this, they selected the names of those who handled choice paintings – then put a couple of the most likely suspects under surveillance.
One of these, Bertie Lidell, was known to Moser, who caught him with a couple of very nice watercolours under his arm.
Thinking to save himself, Lidell ratted on his suppliers: Dubois, Arbre and Wood. Eventually, all four went to prison and most of the paintings were retrieved, which raised the status of Scotland Yard no end in artistic circles.
Lidell had not completed his prison sentence. He had had an accident, contracted that dangerous infection, erysipelas, and had died. Dubois, Arbre and Wood did their time and were duly released.
Moser had scribbled a note on the bottom of the file:
Saw Dubois playing a cornet in a street near Charing Cross. Said he was saving money to go to America. Arbre had gone back to France. Wood fallen on hard times and is very bitter because his wife died while he was locked up. Dubois said, ‘If he sees you, he will kill you.’
Well, there was your bitterness against the police. Of course, most criminals were bitter about being caught. But the fraudsters had included a couple of romantic quotes on their circular about ‘the glory and the good of art’ by Robert Browning, and Shakespeare’s ‘Look here upon this picture’. So there were your rhymesters.
There was also their playfulness in calling themselves Wood and (in French) ‘of the wood’ and ‘tree’. The artists defrauded could be said to have come ‘from all nations’. Well at least most of the European ones.
Better see if he could find Wood.
‘Yeh, I remember her,’ exclaimed the driver of a four-wheeled cab.
The queue of vehicles left at the cab rank at Highgate Station had been short. But, wonder of wonders, the driver of the third in line, a well-kept growler with a black horse whose shiny flanks glinted under the street lamp, had proved to be the one he sought.
‘Remember where I took her to, as well,’ said the chirpy, grinning driver before Smith even had time to ask. ‘Want to go?’
Smith nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, please.’ He certainly did, and there was no question that this expense would be claimable – if his quest was successful. He jumped up on the box to sit alongside the driver.
‘Did she know where she was going?’ he asked, as the cabbie gave a little tug on his reins and made a soft, clicking signal to his horse.
‘How d’you mean, sir?’
‘Did she ask you for a suitable place to go or did she give you an address?’
‘Oh, gave me an address.’ He guided his horse out on to busy Muswell Hill Road. ‘Knew where it was, too.’
Ah, so Maud and Alice had not been entirely alone in London, after all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘It’s by William Cowper,’ said Helen, as she entered the room with a leather-bound book under her arm. ‘From “The Winter Evening”, which is book four of his poem “The Task”.’
‘You found it! Cheadle will be pleased.’
Helen glanced heavenwards. ‘This is to please you, not that dreadful man.’
They both laughed.
She wants to please me, he thought.
She laid the volume on a bookrest and opened it where she had placed a leather marker. ‘Cowper was an early nature poet. A little bit mad but he wrote some wonderful verse and several hymns, “God moves in mysterious ways”, and all that.’
Best had heard of Cowper, vaguely. But, as a Roman Catholic, doubted that he was familiar with the hymns. That had been another problem between them.
‘Listen to this,’ Helen said. ‘It’s from verse four of “The Winter Evening”. She began reading in her soft, low voice:
“‘He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter’d boots, strapp’d waist, and frozen locks;
News from all nations lumbering at his back.’”
‘Hm.’ Best wrinkled his brow. ‘Read it again, please, will you?’
She did.
‘I don’t quite understand. Who is this “herald” who comes? Is it winter?’
‘Yes, I think it must be.
It goes on:
“True to his charge, the close-pack’d load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destined inn:
And having dropp’d th’ expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief.”
‘Hm, maybe not. Maybe it’s meant to be the outside world. The verse goes on with things you read about in newspapers: the fall of stock, births, marriages and deaths. And here’s a bit which could be pertinent:
“Is India free? and does she wear her plum’d And jewell’d turban with a smile of peace, Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, The popular harangue …”’
‘India,’ he mused. ‘Well, it is involved in the Afghan war, of course. And that was one of the possibilities we came up with, apart from the Irish troubles.’
‘Could Quicksilver be an Indian – or a mutiny sympathizer – wanting India to be free?’
Best sighed. ‘That’s something to keep in mind, I suppose, to look at closer. We’ll do that – and warn India House.’
As he had suspected, discovering the context actually illuminated little, confused things more.
‘It does seem,’ said Helen, reading his thoughts, ‘apart from the India possibility, that the context is immaterial. Maybe we only need to take the phrase on face value.’ She paused. ‘Is there some international event taking place in London?’
‘Not that we know of. We’ve been wracking our brains and thumbing through newspapers but haven’t been able to pinpoint anything.’
They contemplated the matter for a moment.
‘So, could it be something to do with an international organization?’
Best shrugged. ‘We think that’s another possibility but –’ he spread his hands – ‘it’s such a wide canvas.’
‘Well, even if you haven’t found the answer, we’ve at least blocked off one side alley and come up with a small lead.’