by Carol Hedges
Stride waves a dismissive hand, “No, no, don’t do that; I’ll see him. If I must. Give me five minutes, then show him into Detective Sergeant Cully’s office. And bring me a mug of coffee, would you? Strong and black. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”
It is with a deep sense of foreboding that Stride levers himself out of his seat and goes to sit behind the small desk in the room Cully shares with several other detectives. After a suitable interval, Gerald Daubney is shown in. The constable places a mug of coffee on the desk.
Stride finds a chair for the collector to sit on, then opens the folder of Cully’s interviews and reports on his investigation into the missing netsuke. He leans on the desk and smiles in what he hopes is a professional, and not a fed-up-with-being-pestered manner.
“Good morning, Mr. Daubney. As my constable has told you the detective sergeant is out at the moment. How may I assist you?”
Two bright spots of anger burn in Daubney’s corpse-candle face.
“But this is not good enough! Not good enough at all! I wrote to Detective Sergeant Cully informing him that I would be coming to Scotland Yard to see him today. This is the second time I have written! And now you inform me he is ‘out’? Out?”
Stride riffles through the folder. “No sign of a letter here, sir. Perhaps it went astray? It happens. This is a big police office and we deal with a lot of cases.”
“But not, apparently, mine,” Daubney says bitterly. “I have been waiting for a letter telling me what progress has been made. I have received nothing. I have waited for a call. Again, nothing. The only news I have had, came from Mr. Mortlake, of Mortlake & Devine, who told me your detective was round at his showroom asking all sorts of questions about who else collects netsuke.
“When pressed by myself, he also informed me that the detective was particularly interested in a man called Mr. Munro Black. Who is this man, inspector? And what is his connection to my burglary and my netsuke?”
Damn, Stride thinks.
“I am afraid I am not at liberty to tell you anything at the moment, sir, as the person concerned is currently the focus of an investigation.”
Daubney twitches violently in his seat.
“Mr. Mortlake, from whom I learned more in five minutes than I have from you in five weeks, said your detective was asking about the Edo Cat.”
“Possibly he was, sir. But like I said, I am not at liberty to share with you details of an ongoing investigation.”
If you had run Daubney through with an ancient collectable Japanese sword, he couldn’t have looked more astonished.
“But it is my netsuke. My Edo cat. If this man has taken it, then of course I must know.”
“And you will know, sir. As soon as we have collected the evidence we need. That is the way we deal with cases. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if we could be allowed to pursue our inquiries, on your behalf as well as on behalf of Mr. Flashley’s friends and family. As I said, we will be in touch. Now, if you would excuse me, sir, I have other urgent matters to deal with.”
Daubney hesitates. A stubborn expression crosses his face.
“And what if I refuse to go? What if I don’t believe you?”
“We are on the cusp of making an arrest, sir,” Stride says, wondering why interviewing the non-criminal was even harder than extracting a confession from the malefactor. “Soon, we hope to be able to return your stolen property to you. It would assist us greatly if you’d allow us to proceed at our own pace.”
He is mentally crossing his fingers that the collector will see the logic of this, and that the deity he doesn’t really believe in won’t hold the lie against him long term.
Daubney sinks his face into his hands. A tremor passes through his etiolated frame.
“Would you like some water, sir?” Stride asks, rising. “I will ask one of the men to bring you a glass.”
He stands up and hurries out of the room, closing the door behind him. Daubney raises his face from the sieve of his hands. He listens. Then he darts over to the desk, turns the folder round, and looks at the top report.
As luck would have it, the report is the one detailing Cully’s first interview with Munro Black and contains the reference to the ivory cat that he noticed on the hall mantelpiece. Daubney skim reads it, making a mental note of the address. Then, hearing footsteps returning, he turns the folder back round to its original position and resumes his seat.
Some time later, Gerald Daubney leaves Scotland Yard, a determined expression on his face. He knows where he is now, and where he is going, and what he will do when he gets there.
****
While all this is happening, Constable Dean, newly appointed to the Metropolitan Police, and as keen as mustard, is on duty in one of the cramped Watch Boxes that fringe the perimeter of Russell Square.
He has a whistle, a rattle and a copy of the Police Gazette for company. Every now and then, he peers out of the narrow wooden aperture and checks for suspicious characters. The very wealthy inhabitants in their big houses do not want the hoi-polloi to loiter on their exclusive pavements, nor lean against their pristine iron railings.
Constable Dean is aware that one house in particular has to be carefully observed, but he has been watching it for so long that, as is often the way of it, he has forgotten why, and so he has stopped. At midday, he unwraps the packed lunch his landlady has put up for him and enjoys the two juicy ham sandwiches and slice of cake. His landlady believes that young men, especially good-looking ones, need plenty of wholesome sustenance.
While Constable Dean is lunching, some men start to rake the leaves into piles, a very fashionably dressed woman takes her small dog into the gardens to relieve itself, and a horse-drawn furniture van pulls into the square. It stops in front of Number 55. Two men in the brown-overalled livery of Beales & Co., Storage & Shipping, dismount. They knock at the door and are admitted by a parlour maid. After a while they return and begin to unload packing crates from the back of the van.
Constable Dean shakes the crumbs from his lunch out of the aperture, and notices that there is a certain amount of activity taking place at Number 55, at which point he remembers a vague instruction from his superior to keep an eye on the place and report anything unusual.
As he watches, he sees packing crates being manhandled down the steps and loaded into the van, which then drives off. It is now afternoon. He decides to take a turn about the square ~ what, in universal police parlance, is known as ‘proceeding’. He is proceeding past Number 55 when the door opens, and a couple of female servants emerge. They are wearing outdoor clothes and carrying bags. They do not look happy.
Seizing the initiative, he approaches and engages them in polite conversation, from which he learns that the house is being packed up, as the master is leaving. The servants have all been let go, without the usual notice and, more importantly, without receiving their proper wages.
Constable Dean returns thoughtfully to his Watch Box. He is sure this information needs to be relayed to somebody higher up the food chain. He makes copious notes, waits an hour until his replacement turns up, then inquires of him what he should do.
Luckily, the replacement is the man who received the original briefing from Detective Inspector Stride and so, after a brief discussion, Constable Dean is sent hot-foot over to Scotland Yard to deliver his carefully written observations straight into the hands of the appropriate authority.
****
It is early evening when Greig and Cully arrive at Russell Square. The gas-lamps have recently been lit, their muted golden glow casting patches of light interspersed with pools of shadow. The two detectives make their way to Number 55. The house is in total darkness, except for the hallway and first floor, where more light slants out between the slats of the Venetian blind. Cully tries the door. To his surprise, it opens.
They enter quietly but find nobody to challenge them or bar their way. There appears to be no servants in the house, confirming what they have been told. Greig p
laces a finger to his lips and nods in the direction of the rear sitting room, from whence comes sounds of hammering.
“I think we will find our man in there,” he whispers. “Proceed with caution.”
The two detectives approach. Through the half-open door, they spy Munro Black. He is wearing outdoor clothing and is busily hammering down the lid of a wooden packing crate. Other crates are stacked against the walls.
“Just in time, eh,” Greig murmurs. “A while longer, and it is clear our bird would have flown. Let us confront him, and end this once and for all.”
He steps boldly into the room. “Good evening, Mr. Black,” he says breezily. “I see you are planning a house move?”
Munro Black straightens up and stares at the two detectives. He appears totally unfazed by their unexpected appearance.
“Evening, gents,” he says coolly. “Bit late for a social call? I’d offer you a sherry, but as you can see, I am rather busy. So, why don’t you just state your business and be on your way, eh?”
He turns his attention back to the crate and continues hammering down the lid.
“Why don’t you put down that hammer first,” Cully suggests. “You may find it better to concentrate upon what we have come to say.”
Black turns to him with a sneer. “I doubt you have anything to say to me that’d be of the slightest importance.”
“Is that so? Does the name Albert Norris mean anything to you?”
Black’s expression is impenetrable. “Never heard of him. Why?”
“That’s odd,” Greig says, picking up the conversational reins. “He has told us that he was employed by you specifically to deal with people who owed you money, or were threatening to make your life difficult by reporting you to the authorities. Men like James Flashley, for instance.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t want to go believing everything you get told.”
“He is lying? Really? Strange. Because he was able to give us chapter and verse on several ‘punishments’ he swears you ordered him to carry out. And when we investigated his statements, they all checked out. So, I ask you once more: do you know this man?”
Black shrugs his massive shoulders, then gently taps his open palm with the head of the hammer in a ‘not threatening, just suggesting’ sort of way.
“Stop wasting my time, gents. If you have anything important to say, spit it out. I am a busy man.”
“Where are you going?” Greig asks evenly.
“None of your business officer. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
“Not so fast. Not so fast. There are still matters to discuss. Like what happened after you and Mr. Norris left the Ship Inn public house. At the end of that evening, a man was left swinging from a rope. Mr. Norris denies any knowledge of his death. Which only leaves your actions unaccounted for. Would you care to account for them now, to us?”
Black’s face darkens, and the hand gripping the wooden handle of the hammer tightens, until his knuckles go white.
“You haven’t got a shred of evidence,” he snarls. “You come here accusing me in my own house of this and that, but you can’t prove a single thing. Once and for all: I did not steal whatever it was you think I stole. I did not murder whoever you think I murdered. I have nothing more to say. Now get lost, both of you! I want you to leave. Before I get really cross. There are laws about intimidating people.”
“And I expect you know them all, don’t you, Mr. Black? Doesn’t seem to stop you though, does it?” Greig replies smoothly.
Meanwhile, Cully is glancing round the empty room, searching for clues and inspiration. His gaze finally comes to rest on the space above the marble fireplace. Whatever was hanging there has been packed, but the evidence of its presence remains in the ghostly outlines left on the sun-lightened wallpaper. And suddenly, Cully makes the link.
Last time he was in this room, there were two oriental daggers with fancy gold handles displayed over the mantelpiece. Cully is absolutely sure that one of them is currently the property of the Metropolitan Police, having been picked up at Bob Miller’s Livery Stable by himself.
He tugs at Greig’s elbow and, speaking in a low urgent voice, quickly appraises him of what he has realised. Greig makes no outward sign that he understands, but something in his demeanour shifts, subtly.
“You are quite correct, Mr. Black. We do not have the proof to accuse you of theft. You must be relieved, eh? And we have no actual proof that you participated in the killing of James Flashley. Oh, we suspect that you did, very much so,” he pauses, “but obtaining false birth certificates for young women, Mr. Black ~ that is something we’d very much like to look into with you. As would the Registrar General’s Office.
“And then there is the attempted murder of the young potboy from the Ship Inn, still under investigation. My colleague reminds me that we have the dagger from that incident in our possession. It is an unusual oriental dagger, Mr. Black. We picked it up at the scene, along with your man Norris.”
Cully takes a step towards Munro Black.
“We believe the fire that destroyed the Ship Inn was set at your command to intimidate the local community,” he says. “But the boy survived the flames and is in our safekeeping. As is the murder weapon. I would be extremely interested to see whether the dagger is one of the pair that used to hang over your fireplace. I remember seeing it there on a previous visit. Therefore, I request that you accompany us to Scotland Yard, as we need to ask further questions.”
Munro Black does not answer, but his hand snakes into his coat pocket. It emerges, clutching a small pistol. He raises his right arm and points the pistol straight at Cully’s head. His hand is perfectly steady; his eyes are like black ice.
“Don’t make me regret anything, gents,” he says quietly. “Accidents can happen so easily. One shot, and it’s lights out, eh? Now, this is how it’s going to go: I’m leaving London, and there’s nothing you or any Scotland Yarders can do to stop me. You have no proof of anything. No court in the land would convict me. If they could find me in the first place, which they won’t. So, if you’re sensible, you’ll just stay here for a while. And then you’ll forget you ever saw me or heard of me. Right?”
Greig and Cully do not move. Black makes some mock shooting gestures at them, laughs scornfully, then quits the room, slamming the door after him. They hear his heavy footsteps going down the hallway towards the front door.
Suddenly the sound of a gunshot cracks the silence. Greig wrenches open the door and they both rush out. Amy Feacham is standing in the hallway, her back to the open front door, a gun gripped in both hands.
As they watch, Black spins, staggers, brings his hand to his chest. A crimson stain begins to spread. He jerks forward and falls, blood bubbling from his mouth. His body writhes on the floor. He gasps for breath, a hoarse choking sound. Then a great shudder passes through him and he lies still.
Cully and Greig edge slowly towards the youthful assassin. At the sight of them, Amy sets down the gun and walks over to the body. She stares down at it for a long, silent time. Then she glances up at the two detectives. She seems completely unsurprised to see them in the house.
“Good riddance!” she says.
Cully breathes in sharply, “How on earth did you get hold of a gun?”
“Jonas gave it me when he returned. For my protection. He said I wasn’t safe anymore. Not after talking to you and then coming here to find Rosa.” Amy gestures towards the street door. “He’s waiting for me down at the docks, with Ma, my little sister and our luggage. We’re off to a new life in America. Got our passage all booked. We sail tonight on the tide. Nothing left here for us, is there? Just one last thing I had to take care of before we set sail. And now I have.”
“But why did …” Greig begins.
She closes him down with a fierce look.
“You know why I did it ~ for Rosa, and all the other innocent young girls what they took and soiled, and then sold on to be used by men for their pleasure. And what I think, be
ing decent gents both, is that you ain’t going to arrest me, coz we know it’s exactly what he deserved, right?”
Amy Feacham waits for a second, staring at them, daring them to lay hands on her. Neither man takes a step towards her. Eventually, she nods at them.
“Well then, I’ll bid you both good-night. Got a ship to catch. It’s been a bad time for us, but it’s over at last. We may not have got poor Rosa back, but we’re still a family; we got each other, and that’s all what counts in the end.”
She turns and walks away, closing the front door quietly behind her. Greig and Cully wait for the silence to die down a bit. Then Greig goes over to the gun and starts edging it carefully towards the body with his boot, until the handle is almost touching the dead man’s hand.
“Suicide?” he murmurs thoughtfully.
“Indeed,” Cully replies. “As Mr. Robertson never tires of telling us: In suicidal cases, the instrument of death is generally found near the body.”
“It is.” Greig nods. “And the wound is frequently inflicted in the region of the head or the heart. I think our work here is done, detective sergeant.”
“I agree, detective inspector.”
The two men make a quick final check of the house. Just in case they have missed anything, or anybody. They find nothing, only empty rooms, packing crates, and furniture covered by dustsheets. Just before they leave, Greig switches out the lights.
****
But unbeknown to them, Greig and Cully won’t be the only visitors to the house this evening. In the small hours, the dead time, when the bright places in the West End of the city have emptied out of people, leaving only those who have no home, and so are forced to inhabit the streets at night, another noctambulant enters the square.
Clad in a black overcoat, his hat pulled low over his brow, Gerald Daubney opens the gate to Number 55. He is here to reclaim his treasures. He has been thinking and planning for this moment ever since he left Scotland Yard earlier in the day, the address burning bright in his fevered brain. He is about to enact upon the sleeping occupants what was done to him ~ he even has a house-brick, wrapped in a cloth, under his coat.