[The Victorian Detectives 09] - Desire & Deceit

by Carol Hedges

  “I expect they will be present,” he says, gritting his teeth. “After all, they are also family.”

  His daughter gives him a meaningful smile and is about to open her mouth to respond when her mama places a gloved hand warningly upon her knee.

  “Your father has spoken, dear,” she murmurs. “We will do exactly what he says. Now, would you like a biscuit? We are still some way away from London.”

  A bag of dry-looking biscuits is produced and shared round. Harriet takes one. Hanover smirks at his sister as he helps himself to three. Harriet nibbles at the unappetising snack, then feeds it furtively to the parrot. There is a universal belief that, due to their proximity in the womb, twins are born with some deep mystical connection that binds them together. The Harbinger twins are living evidence that one should never trust in universal beliefs.

  The train finally huffs into Paddington Station. The family clamber out of the carriage. A porter is hailed. Luggage is stacked onto a trolley. The parrot complains loudly throughout the proceedings. They make their way to the barrier. The steam from the engines makes it like walking into a furnace. Outside the station, Sherborne Harbinger hails a cab and bundles them all inside. The cases are distributed round and on the roof of the cab. The parrot is placed next to Harriet. It continues to squawk. They set off for their hotel. The cab horse stumbles along at a slower than walking pace, blowing out its nostrils in protest at having to pull a heavy load through the sun-baked streets.

  At the Excelsior Hotel, the family de-cab and are shown to their suite of rooms by a tired-looking chamber maid in a limp cap. Father and son then change into crumpled suits and shirts, then set off to express their sympathy in person. The parrot goes with them. It has an important role. Arriving at the Chelsea house, Harbinger knocks in an imperious manner. The door is opened by Rose, the housekeeper, who regards them with some suspicion.

  “I am afraid we do not entertain tinkers,” she says. She shoots a glance at the parrot. “Nor buy from itinerant peddlers,” she adds.

  Sherborne sucks in an indignant breath and draws himself up to his full height. “I am Mr Sherborne Harbinger, the nephew of your mistress. Please announce us at once.”

  The housemaid pinches her lips and stands aside to let them enter. “My mistress is resting in her room. It is on the first floor, if you would care to follow me,” she says.

  They make their way up to the first floor, their footsteps muffled by the thick ruby-red carpet. They follow the housekeeper’s ram-rod straight back along a silent corridor until she stops outside a closed door. The air smells of medicine and elderly body. Hanover wrinkles his nose. His father shoots him an admonishing glance.

  “Now, Hanover, wipe that expression off your face. Remember why we are here. Make your bow and let your great aunt see that you are a gentleman.”

  “Hanover is a gentleman!” comes from under the green baize cloth.

  “That’s quite right, Polly. Be sure you tell Aunt Euphemia all about him. Just as we taught you.”

  The housekeeper knocks at the door. She signals to them to wait on the landing while she ascertains her mistress’ wishes. After a few minutes, she returns.

  “You may go in,” she says, reluctantly.

  Harbinger père et fils enter a room papered fearfully in blue roses and yellow lilies. The carpet is a dreary flat sandy-yellow in colour, as if the Sahara Desert had relocated to London. Swathed in a paisley shawl, Aunt Euphemia sits upright, propped against three pillows, in a four-poster bed draped in chintz hangings. She is wearing an old-fashioned lace cap with lappets. She regards her nephew and great nephew with an air of resigned weariness.

  “Well, Sherborne, so here you are. And I see you have brought your son, young … young …” the old lady frowns.

  “Hanover, dear aunt. His name is Hanover and he, as I, are sorry to see you so ill-disposed.”

  “I am not ‘ill-disposed’, Sherborne, I am dying. Were it not so, I doubt that you, and Arthur would have broken off from your various important lives to come and visit me, eh?” she snaps. “And what the devil is that thing the child holds in his hand?”

  “Ah, dearest aunt, this is Polly ~ a young grey parrot. She is a present from my wife, my son Hanover and myself,” Harbinger says. “We thought that her merry antics might amuse you. Hanover ~ take the cover off the cage and set it up over there ~ on the chest of drawers.”

  The old woman stares at the gift in horror. “And how am I supposed to look after this bird?”

  “Oh, we have brought a bag of seeds. Your servant can fill the container and change the water. That is all the bird requires. Hanover will visit regularly to make sure she is looking after the parrot properly. I am sure you will find Polly a delightful companion.”

  The old woman’s expression indicates she deeply and sincerely doubts it.

  “And now, dear aunt, we will take our leave. We have only just arrived in London ~ we haven’t even unpacked our cases; such was our eagerness to come to visit you. Till tomorrow ~ Hanover, make your bow to your dear great aunt.”

  The old woman waves a languid hand in dismissal, her eyes still fixed in horror on the parrot, who is turning somersaults on its perch and uttering strange squawking sounds. As soon as the housekeeper returns, she orders her to: “Take that disgusting bird away, Rose, and put it somewhere I shall not have to see or hear it again.”

  The housemaid picks up the cage.

  “Go to your room, you ugly fright!” shrieks the parrot as it is unceremoniously bundled out. Then, “Where is Harriet? I want Harriet!”

  ****

  Detective Sergeant Jack Cully has spent several hours painstakingly going through the various beat constable reports that somehow always end up on his desk instead of Detective Inspector Stride’s. But as he scratches his head over the scrawly writing and spellings that some officer has taken a run at and missed, his mind keeps drifting back to the empty slab in the police mortuary, and the body that wasn’t on it. Cully likes ends that are neatly tied and do not dangle precariously over some unfathomable edge.

  Eventually, he decides to go and seek out Constable Tom Williams, and take the young officer and his own thoughts for a walk to where the body was first discovered, because a lot can be learned from observing a body in situ. Or in this case, the situ. Cully tries to approach every investigation with an absolutely blank mind, if possible. He prefers to observe first, and then draw inferences from his observations.

  After a brief struggle through the pavement traffic, they arrive at a wooden hoarding, behind which the sound of loud rhythmic demolition hammers the air. A sign affixed to the hoarding informs the casual passer-by that the site has been acquired by Wm. Boxworth & Co. Developers. No Admittance Except by Appointment.

  “I’ve been patrolling this beat regularly for a few weeks, sir,” Constable Williams says. “When I started, it was just a row of ordinary houses. Older properties. Rented mainly. Irish navvies and elderly couples. Then they started digging up the pavement to make way for a railway line. A week ago, the hoarding went up and the houses started coming down. Now all the people have gone.”

  Cully knows it is a scene that repeats throughout the city and has done ever since he can remember. London is recreating itself, like some archaeological excavation in reverse. The past is being covered up and rewritten. The skyline changes constantly, spectral lines of half-demolished buildings, their rooms gaping like open wounds as the monstrous tentacles of the new city reach out to choke off the old one.

  “Show me exactly where you found the body.”

  Constable Williams walks a short distance to where there is a gap in the hoarding. “He was lying here, sir. I saw his boots sticking out first. I thought he might be a drunk. Then, as I got closer, I realised he wasn’t.”

  Jack Cully stands in silence, observing and thinking. Then he gets out his notebook and starts writing. He steps into the gap. On the other side of the hoarding, the ground falls steeply away into a deep trench. On a dar
k night, it would have been all too easy to trip, or be pushed over the edge, he thinks. The words ‘lucky escape’ do not seem relevant, given the circumstances.

  Cully suddenly sees something glinting on the dusty ground at the base of the hoarding. He bends down and picks up a half-smoked cigar, its gold band intact. A further investigation elicits a wax vesta, half burned and coated with mud.

  “See here?” he says. “What does this suggest?”

  Constable Williams bites his lower lip. “It suggests maybe I didn’t make a thorough enough search, sir.”

  Cully smiles. “It was dark, constable. Not your fault. Now, I’m not an expert on fine cigars, but from the name on the band, I don’t think it was a cheap smoke. So, whose cigar was it? Our dead man’s last smoke, or did it belong to someone associated with him? Does this suggest somebody else was present?” Cully pockets the cigar butt, and his notebook. “I wonder. Do you know the first rule of good detection, constable?” he continues. “Always ask yourself why. Why. Why did this happen? And keep on asking it, until you have the answer.”

  “Yes, sir. So why do you think somebody took the body out of the mortuary?”

  “Indeed, that is the exact question that I am asking myself,” Cully nods. “But I don’t think we are going to find the answer here. Let us head back to Scotland Yard and plan the next move in our investigation.”

  ****

  The scene changes from a noisy building site to the far more salubrious environs of the Belvedere Club, off Pall Mall. In the magnificent high-ceilinged smoking-room we find Thomas Langland, Everard Carstairs and Arthur Harbinger. Butcher, baker, candlestick-maker. In reality, an MP, an entrepreneur and the senior manager of a large insurance company.

  A substantial club luncheon of beef, batter pudding, gravy and potato, followed by jam roly-poly and custard sauce (the link between the menu of top London clubs and top public schools is never disputed) has been consumed, and is now being allowed to settle.

  Waistcoat buttons have been undone. Well-fed bodies lounge deep in the comfortable leather armchairs. Pipes have been filled. Cigars cut and lit. Brandy in cut-crystal glasses are to hand. The atmosphere is heavy with repletion and smoke. The only sound is the rustle of newspapers and the odd gentle snore.

  “So, Arthur,” drawls Carstairs, entrepreneur, “how’s that aunt of yours coming along. Seems to be takin’ an unconscionable time about dying, eh!”

  “It cannot be much longer now,” Harbinger says, between gritted teeth.

  “Better hadn’t. You know the deal. Money up front by the end of the month or we shall have to bring old Bunter Faversham on board. Can’t run a racing syndicate on promises of jam tomorrow. Need the chink to keep the wheels oiled.”

  Thomas Langland, MP, raises a quizzical eyebrow. “Want me to take soundings in the House? I’m sitting on the Round up the Homeless and Put them to Useful Employment Committee this afternoon. Faversham’s chairing. I’m sure he’d fancy a slice of the pie.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Harbinger says smoothly. “I shall be visiting my aunt in the next few days. I am sure there will be a positive outcome very shortly.”

  “Haw Haw! Going to put a pillow over the old gal’s face yourself, are you?” Carstairs guffaws. “Like your style, Harbinger.”

  Arthur Harbinger bites his lower lip. Carstairs’ words, though spoken in jest, have touched a nerve. Many a night he has lain awake, mulling over possible ways to hasten the dispatch of the old lady. And now his snaky younger brother and the brood of vipers have arrived, just to exacerbate the situation.

  “Everything is in hand, don’t fret. No need to call upon Faversham,” he says.

  Carstairs gives him a lowered eyebrow stare. “Glad to hear it, old man. Opportunities like this don’t grow on trees. So, you’ll be good for a couple of hundred, then?”

  “Oh indeed, do not worry on that score” Harbinger says, rising to his feet and signalling to the waiter to fetch his coat, hat and stick. He descends the ornate staircase, then hurries out of the Belvedere and sets off down the street at a brisk pace. He is a man of business and right now, he has an important business appointment.

  There is a world beneath the visible one, and some people have a different life to the one that they outwardly present. Such a person is Arthur Harbinger, a pale man with lank hair and cadaverous features. A man who conveys the impression of inhabiting some dark sulphurous nether region.

  Harbinger was brought up in a bleak suburban household, with a father whose violent and unpredictable rages sent him and his younger brother and sister scurrying for sanctuary, and a mother who wore a veil indoors to hide her bruises and, when he was thirteen and away at boarding school, mysteriously disappeared, never to be mentioned again.

  Left with three children, Harbinger’s papa decided that a spare upbringing was the best way to bring them up and prepare them for the world that awaited. Food and praise were doled out sparingly. The only thing that was not spared was the rod.

  The three motherless children were encouraged to compete for their father’s attention, which, like the rest of their upbringing, was meted out in miniscule amounts and usually only to the one who could cite some sort of achievement. Preferably got at the expense of somebody else.

  Cheating, lying, doing down an opponent, depriving a competitor of a prize ~ this was how the boys learned to win their father’s notice and praise. Thus, Arthur became adept at copying the work of brighter schoolfellows and passing it off as his own, whilst Sherborne elevated tale-telling on his siblings and the servants into an art form. Growing out of childhood, the pinnacle of the paternal praise pyramid was the acquisition of money. The more, the better.

  As for Wilhelmina, who was undereducated, disregarded and overlooked on account of being a girl, she spent a great deal of time in her room, singing to herself and plotting. Nobody was sure exactly what about. Nobody really cared.

  Now, Arthur Harbinger crosses the Strand and ducks down a side street. In his briefcase is a document written in the ornate copperplate script favoured by the Albion Mutual Providence Society, where he is employed as senior manager. It is a life insurance policy in the name of Mrs Josie Smith of 23A Cunningham Gardens, SW1. The policy was taken out on her behalf by her husband, who signed it, dated it and paid over the sum of £8.

  All ship-shape and above board.

  Except that neither of the Smiths actually exist. They are a figment of Harbinger’s extremely devious mind. Eschewing the riskier money-making routes of the gambling dens or cards, he has devised a far more lucrative way of augmenting his salary. Some might call him a criminal, but if they did, he would refute this hotly. He is a businessman, the difference between a criminal and a businessman being that the businessman has imagination.

  The scam works like this: upon Mrs Smith’s demise, the policy will be redeemed, paying out, upon maturity, the sum of £200. It is the money he needs to buy into his pal Carstairs’ latest enterprise, and he hopes it will convince Carstairs that he is worth the status of a joint partnership.

  All Arthur Harbinger requires now is Mrs Smith’s death certificate, signed and dated by a member of the medical profession. Or a medical student in need of funds. There are always such people, if one knows where to look. And he does. Harbinger is on his way to collect a death certificate from a doctor who isn’t a doctor, for a woman who never existed.

  ****

  On their return to Scotland Yard, Jack Cully dispatches the young constable to his next duties. Then he drafts a ‘Scotland Yard: Information sought’ advertisement to be circulated to all the police offices. Cully knows this is a risky undertaking as it frequently elicits a steady stream of Londoners all willing to ‘help the police with their inquiries’, which translated means hindering them as much as possible by false sightings, fake confessions and misleading information.

  Nevertheless. Somewhere out there, in the teeming tenements or stately squares, there must be somebody who can identify the deceased and n
ow missing man. A wife, a friend, a landlady or work colleague? Who was the last person to see him alive? Once the police know that, they can work backwards to discover why he died, and why his body was stolen from the police mortuary.

  Having prepared his notice, Cully sets out once more on his travels. He is taking the half-smoked cigar to a nearby tobacconist to see what he can find out. He heads towards Mr Leonidas’ Superior Tobacco & Sweet Shop, where he is a regular customer. Both Cully’s small daughters are partial to sweeties, and he often calls in on his way home to buy a bag of something for them to share.

  Cully pushes open the door. The bell tinkles brightly, bringing Mr Leonidas hurrying over to the counter. He has been arranging various glass jars full of brightly coloured sweets. His face lights up with a welcoming smile when he spies his customer.

  “Detective Mr Cully! It is you! Welcome to my little emporium. Now then, what can I offer you today? Look in the cabinet ~ I have some lovely strawberry creams, fresh in ~ the little ones, they would like them very much, I think. Yes?”

  Cully agrees that they would indeed. “But that is not why I am here, Mr Leonidas,” he says, drawing the cigar stub from his inside pocket. “What can you tell me about this?” he says, laying it on the counter.

  The tobacconist picks up the cigar, studies it, turns it, sniffs it. “It is a figurado,” he says. Then, seeing Cully’s puzzled expression, he goes on. “It is made out of a combination of tobaccos ~ very difficult to produce, and in consequence, very expensive.” He studies the band closely. “Cuaba ~ not a brand I stock here, Detective Mr Cully. Not even a brand I know. This is a very up-market cigar, the sort that a rich aristocratic gentleman might enjoy.”

  “And where might he purchase one?”

  Mr Leonidas shrugs. “That I cannot tell you. I am sorry. Maybe you should inquire at the tobacco warehouse in the London Docks. They should have a list of the places they supply with this type of cigar.” He eyes Cully narrowly. “Is this to do with one of your investigations, Detective Mr Cully?”