by Stephen Wade
Lord George and Harry Lacey were playing chess in the library of the Septimus Club. Strangely for Harry, he was insisting on chatting during the supposed silence when concentration was required before the next move was confirmed. George usually won, but Harry had been improving lately. ‘I think I ought to talk on strychnine on Friday, George. Excellent subject … a number of cases I could refer to. Course my doctor has told me to play more cricket, and the match with the Writers’ Eleven should be just the thing.’
‘Do stop prattling Harry, I’m feeling combative and wish to thrash you. Anyway, what you talk about at the Oriental dinner is immaterial. The Septimus brains will be distinctly dulled by the time you stand up and play the Professor.’
‘You may be right. But the cricket match … I understand that Conan Doyle and his friend Alf Mason will both play … dashed good batsman, Mason.’
There was a shout of triumph. ‘Checkmate! Got you again, Prof!’ George beamed and took a cigarette from his case, but he did not light it, as at that moment Smythe brought in a red-faced visitor. ‘Mr John Tardow, My Lord.’
Greetings were exchanged and soon Mr Tardow was telling his story to two attentive listeners.
‘This requires the utmost discretion, My Lord, and er … Professor Lacey.’ They nodded. ‘As you may know, my wife is … well, you have no doubt read the papers this last week.’
‘Yes, but we treat them as purveyors of fantasy, Mr Tardow,’ said Harry.
‘Right … well, you seem to be aware of my situation. What you will not know gentlemen is how deeply I love my wife, and how, although the allegation that we lived together out of wedlock for a few years is true, and indeed although her early life was a rack of torment applied by poverty, we love each other very much. When I met her I was a young man with ambitions and little knowledge of the fairer sex, you understand. As time wore on, she became the most precious thing in my life. When this vermin appeared and threatened to take everything from us, I acted rashly.’
‘Rashly? Please explain,’ said George, interested.
‘I went to his office and, well, I struck him.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Harry.
‘But that is not the worst of it. I have, I fear, done something extremely foolish.’
‘Oh dear God, what have you done?’ asked George.
‘I have hired a killer,’ Tardow whispered, with a shifty look around the room. But there were only two other men in the library: the Earl of Clannmore was deeply asleep and the Earl of Backforley was deranged and dreaming of his days in Basutoland.
‘What? By the shooting stars of heaven, you surely have not?’ hissed George. Harry, who had been sipping his brandy, spluttered out ‘Blood and sand!’
‘I understood, from my friend Maria de Bellezza, that you gentlemen could be relied on to help anyone with legal difficulties … and that you could be relied upon for discretion, and of course, for professional scruples …’
‘Stop!’ cried George. ‘You have already implicated us in this murderous plan?’
‘Well, that’s the dilemma. I did not conceive of the folly of this until I realised that I was dealing with a man who is himself capable of taking life. I have only learned since talking with him at the Frying Pan and …’
‘Stop again!’ said George firmly. ‘Did you say you met him at the Frying Pan public house … in Brick Lane?’
‘Yes.’
George and Harry looked at each other in sheer stupefaction.
‘The man was an old soldier, I believe. My servant knew someone at the place and set up a meeting, knowing that I needed what I believe is called a mugger and a rampsman.’
‘Those terms are not applied to killers, Mr Tardow. It appears you met a robber.’ George frowned.
‘Look, I went along to that tavern and asked for him. Captain Clinker he was called, a military man. He was there, and he was somewhat light-headed with drink. I asked him to help me and he named a price … I never mentioned murder. I asked for the man in question to be frightened. That was the word I used … but when I told my servant that I’d met Captain Clinker he told me that the man was not the one he had in mind, and he had no notion whatsoever with whom I had been speaking. He said he’d arranged for me to meet someone called Langer, but when Langer wasn’t there, the landlord brought Clinker to me. I thought he was the same kind of cove!’
‘Then why do you think this Clinker will try to kill Sachs?’ George asked.
‘Well, the soldier left, and then I went to leave as well but the landlord took me to one side and said, “You’ll be fine there … he’ll blow the man out of this world, Guv.” Then he winked at me.’
‘Mr Tardow, Clinker is a false name, of course,’ George said. ‘But you must not be anxious … you will never hear from this man again.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity … I gave him money!’
‘What? This gets worse,’ Harry said, ‘Let us establish the facts now. You went to this public house, hired some robber to instill fear into a man … but you do not know the robber’s real name nor his address. Then you come along here to ask … what exactly?’
Tardow looked sheepish. ‘Well, I paid him twenty pounds and promised another twenty if Sachs was … well, subdued.’
George and Harry moved across to the long bookcase that ran behind their favourite sofa and whispering was heard. On their return they requested John Tardow to listen carefully. Harry adopted the stance he used when about to give a lecture on Petrarchan sonnets, put his hands under his coat-tails, then smoothed his moustache.
‘Now, Mr Tardow, as our friend Maria will have told you, the Septimus Club helps various people in matters impinging on criminal behaviour. We tend to concentrate, for the most part, on cases for which the police force have little time or for which they need our particular expertise. Now, what we generally do not do is aid and abet people who have themselves transgressed … however, in this instance, it seems that you are asking us simply to trace a former soldier – one of a possibly violent disposition – and attempt to stop him taking the life of a solicitor. Does that all meet with your approval?’
‘Yes, for God’s sake, stop him. I am suing Sachs for libel. I have set that in motion. In my stupidity I suppose that I thought that if I could scare him off, there would be no need for the libel prosecution to progress … my wife would have to give evidence, of course, and I only came to see after setting matters in motion that perhaps she would find it all intolerable!’
‘Very well then. The Septimus Club will begin the search for Captain Clinker before anything tragic happens. In the meantime, you are on course for the law courts, and surely that will be the only proper way to beat this guttersnipe?’ Tardow nodded. ‘I’ve been very irrational … not at all like me. Thank you gentlemen. Please, keep me informed.’
‘One moment, Mr Tardow,’ said Harry, taking out his notebook and pen. ‘We’ll need a description of this Clinker.’
‘Well, it was quite dark … but he had a round, bloated face, with long dark hair and … no beard, but not well shaven either. I thought him a fighting man, as he had that broken nose that pugilists tend to have. I would say with some conviction that he was not yet forty years of age – perhaps mid-thirties. He was singing something … something like, All he did was kiss me but my heart began to fly.’
‘That’s very useful,’ Harry said and proceeded to sing a line from the song. ‘My heart began to fly, and I’m so happy I could cry … Molly McCardle sings it … she’s down at the supper club as a rule.’
‘Ah, one more thing,’ said Tardow. ‘He was a Yorkshireman. I’ve dealt with a number of men from that shire in my business. He had that very distinctive speech … tha knaws.’ The last two words were so incongruous that they all managed a smile. ‘He also had a medal of some kind, pinned on his coat.’
‘A medal? What shape was it? What design?’ Harry pressed.
‘It was dark! I would say it had leaves … maybe a flower of some kind? It had four leaves, I
think. And there was a badge sewn on his coat. That was a flower also, and there were two words over the flower.’
George seized on this detail. ‘This is vitally important. What was the motto?’
‘It was in Latin. I never studied the language, My Lord. Unlike you varsity men, I attended a modern school. The curriculum was commercial. French was the other language.’
‘Well, think … think about the words,’ Harry urged.
‘Oh … something vegetable. I thought of a vegetable … can’t think what it was.’
‘Mr Tardow, if you think of anything else, let us know, and if you remember the motto, tell us immediately,’ said Harry.
‘In the meantime, my libel suit goes on … I dread seeing Flora in that witness box, tortured by Sachs … for he will defend himself of course! Now I must leave you, and I hope there is something which may be done gentlemen!’ Tardow said his goodbyes and left.
When their visitor had gone, George turned to Harry, who was nibbling an iced bun. ‘That was strange in the extreme. We were discussing a possible murder and yet we found some humour … he is a remarkable man … and what the deuce was the medal?’
‘Yes … and a vegetable! What regiment has a vegetable on its escutcheon?’ asked Harry.
‘Let us summarize the situation, Harry.’ George paced the room, annoying the titled old men trying to snooze. ‘Here is a wealthy man with a high reputation in the world of business, and a wife with a less than respectable past. Then along comes a snake in the grass who blackmails first the lady and then our John Tardow. The good husband does what we all would do: he confronts the man, but realises that the law, not the fist, would better accomplish a settlement. But then …’
‘Then he sees that an action for libel has to be done, but that an ordeal in court would ruin them anyway!’ interrupted Harry.
‘Yes, old man … hence the desperate employment of a killer.’ Lord George looked pensive and then asked, ‘What facts to we have, Harry?’
‘Our assassin is not young – probably thirty-something years old. He has a broken nose. He has a regimental medal … with a motto suggesting a vegetable. There is also another flower-like badge sewn on his coat.’
‘We have to find this man before he finds Sachs,’ said Lord George.
‘Indeed,’ answered Harry, ‘but we have to find Sachs first.’
Jack Garvey was sitting in an alley by an old fruit box, re-reading the article in the Daily Telegraph:
Mrs Tardow’s Alleged Immoral Past
There was considerable moral outrage expressed yesterday at our offices when it was revealed to us by Mr Theo Sachs, a London solicitor, that Mrs John Tardow, thought to be of French birth and education, was in fact, so he alleges, a woman engaging in street prostitution while living in Spitalfields in the early 1860s. Mr Sachs has informed us that he is to be prosecuted for libel by her husband, the man of business recently engaged in politics, and thought to be a strong candidate for representing Forley Water at the forthcoming elections.
He read no further. Concentrating on the print tired his eyes. ‘Well, Mr Sachs, I got your address, I got your name in here …’ he grunted and tapped a finger to his temple. He struggled to his feet, stood to attention, arms by his side. The world he knew dissolved into a blur and he was in barracks again.
‘Then there’s the money, Jack. You need to ‘ave the money, old soldier. Without that it’s ruin, old matey, ruin.’ He rifled his pockets for the notes, and out came a wad of dirty old notes, and, from another pocket, a handful of silver coins, all spread out on his little box. ‘Ha … safety. That’s what you got if you ‘ave these, Jack … safety. A bed for a night is four pence … you got a lot of beds here.’
Sergeant, Sir, ready for inspection, Sir. Yes there is the trunk o’ mine with everything laid out proper like. I got the soles of my boots up-turned, and see the gloves, white as snow, Sergeant. There’s my hat, my cuffs, my straps … all ready Sir! He gave a wobbly salute. Then he staggered forward, lurching towards the filthy pavement. Laughing to himself, he sat back down on the pavement and took out a bottle of rum from the pocket in his greatcoat. ‘Yes, Mr Sachs, I got your name and I’m coming to pay you a visit. The scum has to go. Yes, the little louse has to go. The enemy Sir, the heathens … they have to go!’
That’s my kit Sir. Everything in its place as required. Yes, I brushed everything, I scrubbed everything. I been on me knees for the regiment, Sir. Die for the regiment, I would, Sir. Attention! Go forward soldier. May I stay with this officer, Sir? He’s been hit. He’s down and he needs attention, Sir. I’m used to dealing with blood Captain. He’s bleeding badly and I could stay with him Sir, until he dies Sir, for his country. Permission granted. Thank you Sir, from the bottom of me ’eart.
Sachs was almost buried under a heap of papers when the door opened and a smart, well-built man walked in. ‘Mr Sachs? I’m Detective Sergeant Davis, of the Yard.’
‘Oh right. What can I do for you?’
‘Well I’m here to help you Sir … in relation to a Mr Tardow.’
Sachs’s face screwed up. ‘Ah, so you know about the libel case? But I see no reason why I should be interviewed. I’ve done nothing.’
Davis sat down without permission. ‘Personally, I think what you’ve done is despicable, but I’m a peeler and supposed to have no opinion, Sir.’
‘What I’ve done? Have you seen what he did to me?’ Sachs pointed to the angry red wheal across his cheek.
‘Indeed Sir. Are you familiar with the word blackmail?’
There was a pause. ‘You are here to charge me then?’ asked Sachs.
‘Not at all Sir. I’m here to protect you. Seems that somebody … can’t say who … might want to do you harm.’
‘You mean Tardow of course?’
‘Let’s just say someone.’
‘I see, and so someone at the Yard thought that I might be a target? I wonder who could bear such emotions towards me? I have no enemies in the world detective.’
‘Well, in case you have, I got my little friend here,’ Davis tapped his chest, ‘a Mauser pistol. Got any tea?’
‘Eddie, I’ve come for some help.’ Harry sat in his friend’s office in Scotland Yard, trying his best not to upset the detective, who looked decidedly downhearted.
‘Can you give us some constables to walk around some beer shops and such?’
‘What on earth for, Harry?’ He rubbed his head. ‘Oh dear – I drank some beer last night … I’m sure it was off. My head has native drums in it. Now what’s the play?’
Harry put on his lecturing voice. ‘Right. Basic facts of the case. We need to find a soldier, in his thirties, maybe forty, Yorkshire, has long hair, goes to public houses around Brick Lane. He may frequent several, but should be known at the Frying Pan. He has a broken nose. Smythe has been to the public house and had no luck. Nobody knows the man.’
‘In a half-mile of that place I guess we have thirty beer shops and pubs, Harry! How many constables do you want? Have you nothing else?’
‘Well, I’m working it out … now, let’s say this man left the army recently, around five years ago. I’ve asked the War Office (or rather George has, as he was at Eton with four gentlemen who are now brigadiers) to provide muster rolls and discharge records … but we need the regiment! Apparently this man had medals … and some motto to do with vegetables. Make sense?’
‘Now Harry, you’re talking more nonsense than usual. But we do have a list of regiments, with mottos.’ Eddie shouted for someone and as a constable came to the door, he requested the list. ‘You wouldn’t believe just how many former military men we have causing trouble, and the prisons are packed with them, of course. It’s understandable when you think what war does to a man. They are discharged from army life and either live on a pittance or thin air, and of course they are very skilled at drinking away anything rattling in their pockets!’
A folder arrived and Eddie pulled out a bunch of sheets and handed them to Harry.
‘Here we are. You start on those and I’ll check these here.’
They read in silence, then Eddie muttered, ‘No, no cabbages or peas…’ Then Harry exclaimed, ‘By God … surely this is it … Celer et Audax.’
‘Don’t follow you Harry.’
‘Celer et Audax … Swift and Bold. It’s the motto of the King’s Royal Rifles Corps. We can get the man’s name now, surely!’
Eddie looked baffled, then Harry passed the sheet across and the Detective Inspector saw it at once. ‘Ah! Celery! Well done Prof.’
‘I need to know which men have been discharged within the last five years or so … where they fought last,’ said Harry. ‘I have to go, Eddie … what about the searches?’
‘Right. Tonight – all drinking holes in a half mile radius of the Frying Pan. If we must act, it best be quickly! But you know what you need – a drawing of the man.’
‘A drawing? Mr Tardow could possibly supply some details, but the difficulty lies in the fact that he met this soldier in semi-darkness.’
‘Ah, then it may not be possible. You will be able to find a list of men discharged within a set period, but that may still leave hundreds.’ Eddie racked his brains, trying to think of another approach. ‘Though of course, you have a rough idea of his age … that should help.’
‘Yes, and almost certainly born in Yorkshire.’
It was food for thought, but Harry had no time to spare. He was heading for the War Office.
There was a search of pubs and beer shops and as Jack Garvey walked along he could not fail to notice that there was something of moment going on. He asked a man lounging by the corner of Newgate Street what was the commotion.
‘Peelers after some poor beggar. I heard they was after a soldier, so my mate says.’
That was more than enough for Jack. In seconds he was heading towards the one friend he had if he needed to disappear. Ernie Smith, a photographer now but once a Tommy, had his studio over the City Toy Shop on west Cheapside.
He scuttled past the statue of Sir Robert Peel, and at that point he felt dizzy. He stumbled into a bollard and one knee slammed into the metal, a stab of pain shooting up his leg. You’re falling apart, Jack, get ’old of yourself! he muttered, before diving around the corner behind the toyshop to the back entrance. Climbing the stairs, he knocked on the door, shouting out for Ernie.