The Glass of Time

by Michael Cox

  Another doleful sigh from Mr Gully.

  Mr Wraxall leaned his shining head towards me and, in a deliberately audible whisper, which he clearly intended Mr Gully to hear, informed me that Inspector Gully Senior had been the local officer in the case, and that he had continued to subscribe to the official view that the attack on Mr Carteret had been a straightforward matter of robbery with violence.

  ‘Mr Gully here was, of course, only a youngster at the time; but over the years he has, like me, developed an alternative view of the case. It has, indeed, become something of a private cause with us, which we’ve often discussed together, and also with my late uncle, who made himself rather troublesome in some people’s eyes by steadfastly refusing to accept the inquest verdict, and dismissing the idea that Mr Carteret had been the victim of a peripatetic band of ruffians, who waylaid farmers and the like returning home with market money in their pockets. I have expended a great deal of midnight oil going through every scrap of paper left by my uncle, searching for anything that might throw some glimmer of light on the tragedy, but with little success. We hope – Mr Gully and I – eventually to establish, beyond all reasonable doubt, what actually happened on that fateful day, and – which is the point that most concerns us now, in this present time – why it happened.

  ‘Now here you are, Miss Gorst; and so – if, of course, you’re willing to join us – may I formally, and with great pleasure, extend a welcome to what is now, I sincerely hope, a triumvirate of enquirers after the truth?’

  He holds out his hand, which, surprised though I am by the gesture, I willingly take, saying that I shall be very happy to join them, if they were willing to have me, although I could not see what practical contribution I could make to their endeavours.

  ‘Oh no, Miss Gorst,’ insisted Mr Wraxall most warmly. ‘You do yourself an injustice. I’m convinced – absolutely – that you’ll prove to be a most useful member of our little alliance.’

  ‘Most useful,’ agreed Mr Gully, through a mouthful of cake.

  ‘Your situation here at Evenwood is a singular one,’ Mr Wraxall then remarked. ‘Opportunities may – no, will – arise, discoveries made, perhaps, as a consequence of that situation; and these may advance our cause in ways we cannot presently know.

  ‘You must understand, however, that our interest in the death of Mr Paul Carteret, over twenty years ago now, is far from being one of merely – how shall I put it, Mr Gully?’

  ‘Academic interest, Mr W?’ ventured the detective.

  ‘Exactly,’ Mr Wraxall replied, with an acquiescent nod. ‘And here is my point, Miss Gorst. Mr Gully and I share a common outlook on certain events, of a most dubious character, connected with the noble lady by whom you are presently employed as companion. That outlook may be broadly defined as being sceptical in character – by which I mean that we are in no way persuaded that her Ladyship is entirely innocent of some involvement – be it large or small – in those events. I further believe that you may share that general outlook, Miss Gorst. Am I correct?’

  I considered for a moment what to say, having developed a well-practised habit of caution when answering questions concerning myself; but it was impossible to mistrust those wise grey eyes, and so I thanked Mr Wraxall for his frankness, and for the confidence it placed in me.

  ‘And you are right,’ I admitted. ‘My position here, since becoming Lady Tansor’s maid, has put me close to her, and I have indeed become curious concerning certain aspects of her life, both past and present.’

  ‘Aha!’ exclaimed Mr Gully. ‘Aspects! Past and present! There you have it, Miss Gorst.’

  ‘Good!’ cried Mr Wraxall, slapping his knee. ‘Now one of those past aspects might be the attack on Mr Paul Carteret, in October 1853, of which we have just been speaking. A present aspect might be the very case to which I have already alluded, on which Mr Gully is at present closely occupied: the brutal murder of a woman whose body was found, not three months’ since, in the Thames near Billingsgate Fish-market.

  ‘The question I put to you now, Miss Gorst, is this: are these two apparently unrelated crimes – one past, the other present, both still unresolved – in fact part of one single and still-continuing event? My professional opinion is that they are, and Mr Gully agrees with me. If only we had the proof! For who otherwise would accept that a single chain of circumstances connects the savage murder of Mrs Barbarina Kraus, a woman of low condition with known criminal associates, and the fatal attack, so many years ago, on Mr Paul Carteret, formerly secretary and librarian to his relative, the late Lord Tansor, and father of the present Baroness? It’s too incredible, surely. The very idea is laughable, is it not? And yet it’s a fact, Miss Gorst – a singular but incontrovertible fact – that, on considering this extraordinary possibility for the first time, Mr Gully’s feet began to itch.’

  My face must have clearly expressed my utter perplexity at Mr Wraxall’s words, for the detective immediately offered an explanation.

  ‘I don’t know how it is, Miss Gorst,’ he said, ‘but whenever I’m on the right track in a case, my feet begin to itch. Martha will tell you.’

  Mrs Gully looked up once more from her studious perusal of Mr Matthew Arnold to give an affirmative nod.

  ‘They’re itching now,’ said her husband, gazing down at his boots.

  ‘I saw her,’ I said, wishing suddenly to advance the discussion on my own terms; ‘the old woman, I mean. I spoke to her, too, at the Duport Arms.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Mr Gully, taking out his note-book and starting to write.

  ‘You refer to the late Mrs Kraus?’ asked Mr Wraxall, with eager interest.

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘And what do you suppose she was doing in Easton?’

  ‘I think she had come to Evenwood to see Lady Tansor.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ was Mr Gully’s question.

  I recounted how my Lady had instructed me to take a note to the Duport Arms for the attention of ‘B.K.’, subsequently described by my Lady as a former servant by the name of Bertha Kennedy who had fallen on hard times, but whom I was now certain had been Mrs Barbarina Kraus.

  ‘A former servant!’ exclaimed Mr Wraxall gleefully looking significantly at Mr Gully, and then adding mysteriously: ‘Perhaps that was not so very far from the truth. We’re on to something here, Gully.’

  ‘Indeed we are, Mr W,’ the detective concurred.

  They continued to look at each other for a moment or two, nodded in concert, and then Mr Wraxall addressed me – quietly now, and with a new seriousness.

  ‘Here it is, then Miss Gorst,’ he began, ‘in a nutshell. Mr Gully and I are of the settled opinion that the Duport succession is the single strand that unites the deaths of Paul Carteret and Mrs Barbarina Kraus. Our theory – which, in the absence of solid proof must remain as such – is that Mr Carteret was in possession of information that would have dispossessed Mr Phoebus Daunt of his prospects, as the late Lord Tansor’s adopted heir.

  ‘We further believe – although here our grounds are, as yet, even more speculative – that Mrs Kraus was murdered because she knew something that fatally threatened the favourable resolution secured by the first crime.

  ‘In short, our conclusion is that the attack on Mr Carteret, more than twenty years ago, was the first act in a greater drama, which led first to the murder of Mr Carteret, then to that of Mr Phoebus Daunt, and now to that of Mrs Barbarina Kraus. Would you like to add anything, Mr Gully?’

  ‘An admirable summary, Mr W,’ the young man replied, closing his note-book, ‘as one would expect. “Favourable resolution of the first crime” – excellent phrase! Nothing to add, except perhaps a small point of emphasis, which I shall put to you in the form of a question, Miss Gorst: cui bono? Or, to come at it the other way, who stands to lose all if certain matters, long hidden from view, were to come to light?’

  ‘You allude to Lady Tansor?’ I asked.

  ‘Even she.’

  ‘Then you’d accuse her of murdering her own father?’

  The detective glanced enquiringly at the barrister.

&n
bsp; ‘We have no evidence to make that most serious accusation,’ said the latter. ‘But we cannot dismiss the possibility – even the probability – that her Ladyship, acting with Mr Phoebus Daunt, set the tragedy in motion, although it may be that she did not anticipate its fatal outcome.’

  ‘And Mrs Kraus?’ I asked.

  ‘Blackmail,’ Mr Gully broke in confidently. ‘Pure and simple. Nothing could be clearer. What other reason could the victim have had for coming to Evenwood, if not to lay a demand before Lady Tansor – a demand for money in return for her silence on a matter of the gravest importance to her Ladyship?

  ‘As to the nature of that matter – well, there’s the very nub of the mystery. But now, thanks to you, Miss Gorst, we have a definite connexion between her Ladyship and the murdered woman.’

  ‘The latter’s demand was either refused outright, or an impression given that it would be met,’ observed Mr Wraxall. ‘Either way, another course was covertly taken, which resulted in the most unpleasant consequences for Mrs Kraus. Of course Lady Tansor could not possibly have carried out the deed herself, and so must have had an accomplice.’

  ‘Mr Armitage Vyse.’

  ‘Excellent, Miss Gorst! The very man we suspect.’

  Mr Wraxall was beaming at me in delight.

  ‘You see, Gully,’ he said, turning to the detective, ‘what a great addition Miss Gorst will be to our cause? We’ll get at the truth yet, mark my words, now that Miss Gorst is with us.’

  The long-case clock in the corner of the room struck five o’clock, at the sound of which Mr Gully took out his pocket-watch to check the synchronicity of the two time-pieces.

  ‘I must leave if I’m to catch my train,’ he said, jumping to his feet, and brushing a few stray cake crumbs from his jacket. ‘And so, good-bye, Miss Gorst,’ he said, shaking my hand vigorously. ‘We shall meet again soon, I’m sure. Good-bye, good-bye!’

  III

  Mr Wraxall Exercises His Instincts

  AFTER MR GULLY and his wife had gone – Mrs Gully having bestowed on me only the barest ‘Good-afternoon, Miss Gorst, so nice to have met you’ – Mr Wraxall and I walked out into the little walled garden at the rear of the Lodge.

  ‘You appear to be fond of Mr Gully,’ I remarked.

  We had now passed through a gate into a small area of paddock. Beyond an enclosing fence, the carriage-road ran up through a fringe of well-set woods to the Park gates on the Odstock Road.

  ‘A decent man was killed over there,’ said Mr Wraxall, gazing out towards the darkening line of trees through which I had passed with my Lady and her two sons on our journey to Barnack for Professor Slake’s funeral. ‘The passage of time has not, and will not, erase the memory of that outrage.’

  Overhead, a suddenly startled clamour of rooks, raucously squawking and flapping, took to the air. I stopped to look up at their raggedy antics, while Mr Wraxall walked a little way ahead, his eyes still anchored on the western horizon; then he turned towards me again.

  ‘Forgive me, Miss Gorst. You were speaking of Mr Gully. Yes, I’m very fond of him. Although you might not guess it to look at him, he has a broad and original mind. Not many young men of his upbringing, and certainly none of his compatriots in the Detective Department, read Plato at breakfast, I think! I shall never now have a son; but if I did, I would be proud to have one like Inspector Alfred Gully of the Detective Department.’

  ‘I wish I could have spoken a little more to Mrs Gully,’ I said, as we were walking back to the Lodge. ‘She seemed a person one would like to know better.’

  ‘Ah, Martha the Silent,’ laughed Mr Wraxall. ‘A young woman of the highest intelligence and discretion. She’s Gully’s unofficial right hand, you know. He depends upon her completely, and she has often provided the last essential piece in his investigations that brings success. Her story provides a notable testimony to the benefits of self-improvement. Her father was a ham and beef dealer from Bermondsey, but young Martha conceived the laudable ambition of becoming a doctor. Of course her family circumstances were against her – well, those do not concern us.

  ‘But what does concern us – or should – is Mr Armitage Vyse. You must beware of that gentleman, my dear. He is not an ornament to our profession, and things are whispered of him that give me grave concern. His influence over Lady Tansor has become very marked of late, and this leads me to think that he has some plan afoot, which, if discovered, might put the discoverer in danger.’

  The look he gave disconcerted me, for he seemed to be offering me silent encouragement to unburden myself. I had been more than willing to join him and Mr Gully in their attempt to establish the extent of Lady Tansor’s involvement in the deaths of her father and Mrs Kraus; for if our suspicions could be proved, then my own private cause would be immeasurably advanced, as well as theirs. But I was not ready – yet – to bring even Mr Wraxall into my full confidence. For the time being, therefore, I kept my counsel.

  As we reached the back door of the Lodge, Mr Wraxall stopped, his hand resting on the handle.

  ‘I wish to say something, Miss Gorst, and I shall be direct with you, as a friend ought. You have come here to Evenwood for a purpose. Others may believe that a young lady of your education and abilities was content to become a lady’s-maid, but I do not. It’s the great disadvantage of my calling: to doubt what I’m told until I can prove otherwise. In this case, although I may theorize on the matter, I do not know – and therefore cannot prove – who you really are, and why you are here. I am only sure that I’m right to think that there’s more – a very great deal more – to you, Miss Gorst, than meets the eye.’

  I was about to frame some prevaricating reply, but he raised his hand to stop me.

  ‘No, hear me out if you please, my dear. Every instinct I have tells me that you’re here for no dishonest purpose; but that you have some hidden object in pretending to be someone you are not is, to my professional eye, beyond all doubt.

  ‘Now do not fear. I flatter myself that I’m exceptional in the acuity of my instincts – they provided me with a very comfortable living for many years – and I’m confident that you’re safe from discovery. I also see very well that you are unwilling as yet to confide in me – although I hope that may change. Say nothing, my dear. There’s no need. We understand each other perfectly, I think. All I will say is, that you may depend on me – absolutely – to offer whatever help I can, to the utmost of my ability, in whatever you are engaged upon, feeling certain, as I do, that it must be a matter of the greatest consequence, and that you will tell me what it is in your own good time. Now, let us go in. It’s getting rather chilly, and there’s still cake to be eaten.’

  I found, however, that I did have something I wished to say.

  As we sat together by the fire, our tea-cups refilled, encouraged by what Mr Wraxall had said, I had resolved to tell my new friend and ally what I knew concerning Mr Armitage Vyse, including his meeting with Billy Yapp at the Antigallican, and Yapp’s recent appearance at Evenwood.

  He listened to me with the most concentrated attention. When I had finished, he got up and walked over to the window, where he stood for some time in silent thought.

  ‘Sweeney Yapp. Well, well. Gully was right.’

  By which I understood that the detective had already suspected Yapp – well known to the Detective Department – of Mrs Kraus’s murder, a conclusion Mr Wraxall soon confirmed.

  ‘Gully was sure this was Yapp’s work,’ he said, resuming his seat. ‘People talk, if approached in the right way; but he lacked – still lacks – the evidence. Now, at least, we know who put Yapp up to it, and perhaps also on whose behalf this person was acting. Well, my dear, Mr Gully will have to look to his laurels, it seems. You have the makings of a fine detective – and an uncommonly brave one, to have ventured into such a place as the Antigallican, which I urge you never to do again.

  ‘But it appears that Mr Vyse’s instincts, like my own, are also in full working order. He has his suspicions of you, and that certainly puts you in the way of danger. You are certainly right to think that Yapp was sent here by V
yse, and that must be of great concern to us. I must telegraph Gully as soon as possible.’

  ‘And tomorrow we leave for London,’ I said.

  ‘Do you, though?’ replied Mr Wraxall. ‘Then I beg you to take the greatest care of yourself while you are there. You will please to seek me out, at any time, should it become needful for you to do so, in King’s Bench Walk – number fourteen – and you will try not go out unaccompanied unless it is absolutely necessary. Will you promise me that?’

  ‘I fear I cannot,’ I answered, shaking my head regretfully, for I was already planning various expeditions, if my Lady allowed me some liberty.

  ‘In that case I shall ask Gully to provide some protection for you. There’s a good man in the Department, Sergeant Swann. Let’s see what can be done in that regard.’

  So it was agreed. Mr Wraxall would make the necessary arrangements, after he had conferred with Mr Gully.

  ‘You’ve been most forbearing, sir,’ I said, as I rose to leave, ‘in not pressing me to reveal more about myself than, as things presently stand, I am able to do – although of course I don’t admit that your famous instincts are right on this occasion.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, smiling and resting his wonderful grey eyes on me. ‘I never claim infallibility.’

  ‘But I do have a question for you – if you’re willing to hear it.’

  ‘Ask away,’ he said.

  ‘What made you suspect Lady Tansor of being involved in the murder of Mrs Kraus?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘an excellent question, my dear. Excellent. And quite worthy of Mrs Gully, who has a wonderful knack of putting her finger on things. The suggestion – no more – came to us in a brief note, sent to Inspector Gully, from an anonymous informant. We have no idea at present who this might be, and so there things must rest for now. Well, this has been most pleasant, Miss Gorst,’ he said, handing me my hat and gloves, ‘most pleasant indeed. Goodness me!’