by Carol Hedges
“I am sorry you have come so far on a wasted errand, my dear. Yes, Beatrice and I were neighbours for several years. She inherited the house next door from her parents. There was a younger brother, but I gather he went to the bad and left the country, and they never heard from him again. Would he be your family connection?”
Lucy assumes an expression of incredible innocence and does not respond.
“Ah well, we can choose our friends, but we can’t choose our family, can we,” Mrs Cameron continues. “So, here you are, ready to make reparations, but you have come too late.”
“I know that now. What can you tell me about my relative, and her marriage? Was it not unexpected?”
Mrs Cameron looks down, fiddling with her crotchet hook. “It is not for me to say, Miss Landseer. Beatrice lived with her parents ~ her father was a master baker until they died. She helped in the shop and nursed them both devotedly until the end of their lives. She then took over the reins of the shop. She was rather abrupt in her manner, and perhaps not as pleasant in her disposition as other women in the town, and so did not attract many suitors. She also suffered with her legs and was eventually recommended the water cure at Tunbridge. She met Mr Brooke, her future husband, while being treated there, and married him in the local church.”
“It was a happy marriage?”
“It seemed so. I never heard any quarrels. Then her old trouble returned, and her husband took her up to London to see a specialist. And there she died. It was her final wish to be brought back to Hitchin and be buried in the local churchyard, next to her parents, in the town where she was born.”
Lucy sits silently, taking this information on board. “And the house next door?”
“It was sold. A couple from Royston and their children live there now.”
Lucy waits to see if anything else is going to be imparted. When it is not, and the woman picks up her crochet hook once more in a pointed manner, she takes the hint, thanks her hostess profusely for sparing her the time, and departs.
On the way back to the station, Lucy Landseer calls in at the baker and confectioner’s, superficially to buy a nice cake for the homeward journey. In the course of conversation, she finds out that the shop and the living quarters above are rented by the baker, and the landlord lives in London town.
A good day’s work, Lucy decides, as the train chugs through the Hertfordshire countryside towards London. She has learned much today, none of it to Mr Brooke’s credit. She munches her cake and contemplates her next move. She has never strayed south of the river before. Now it looks as if she is about to make her first foray into the territorial unknown. And who knows what she is going to discover when she gets there?
****
There is not much to discover about the Honourable Thomas Langland that isn’t blatantly apparent to all his fellow MPs: he is cunning, ruthless and with absolutely no scruples. Ideal qualifications for a Member of Parliament. Equally ideal for the various other pies into which he has inserted a finger, the pie in this present case being his ownership of a racehorse called Spartacus, stabled on his country estate in Suffolk.
For the provenance of Spartacus, you have only to turn to the pages of The General Stud Book, where his pedigree is laid out for all to view. His dam was one of the foals bred directly from the Godolphin Arabian, the stallion sold by Louis XV and subsequently brought to Britain to improve the native stock. The horse is a noble animal, a bay with a white star on his forehead. He is bred to run and to win. Currently, he has done exactly that, and a lot of guineas have deposited themselves in Langland’s bank account.
Here is Thomas Langland now, travelling alone in a first-class carriage. It is Thursday night, and the House has risen early, affording him the opportunity to catch the afternoon train to his Suffolk mansion.
London, in the heat of a sweltering summer such as this, carries little appeal for a man like Langland. The Season is drawing to its exhausting close, and he has preparations to make for the upcoming shooting and hunting that will follow in the autumn. Parliament is about to go into recess, after which he will host a number of lavish ‘Friday to Monday’ entertainments in the run-up to Christmas.
Langland’s wife, as befits the consort of an up-and-coming MP, has remained on the family estate, supervising the staff, preparing for his return and overseeing the upbringing of several small Langlands, whose names he sometimes confuses. Like the horse, she also comes from good pedigree breeding stock, although unlike the horse, she has no Arabian lineage.
As the train puffs out of London, Langland settles back with his copy of The General Stud Book. After perusing the page featuring Spartacus, he turns to other pages, where various thoroughbred mares are listed. He takes out a pen, and circles a couple, noting their proximity to his own stables.
His horse is now mature enough to consider his stud potential. Langland has heard on the racing grapevine that the owner of Liberty Hall, descended from the Darley Arabian, made £50,000 in stud fees alone. Then there is the money to be made from any offspring, should they develop the qualities of a good flat-racer.
Of course, Langland is not prepared to fork out vast amounts from his private income. That is not how it’s done. He will form a syndicate: he provides the horseflesh, other men put in the amount needed to buy a top-quality pedigree mare, or two. The profit will derive from the sale of the offspring, and any stud fees on top. He has a list of potential marks, most of whom are racing afficionados already. It should be easy to get them to come up with the money.
Of course, the owners of the mares he has selected might not want to part with them or might demand more than Langland is prepared to pay. But there is a way round that, too. As a local landowner, Langland is privy to all the land disputes, boundary issues, tenancies, business quarrels and sundry other major or petty rivalries that plague his constituents. His agent keeps him up to date. Also, as an MP he is expert in wheedling, requesting, ordering, commanding, cajoling and if that fails to achieve its objective, in forcing, bullying, intimidating, threatening, and making his opponents’ lives pretty miserable.
He is therefore almost certain that the owner of Iris, the mare he has decided to purchase, will be amenable to parting with her once the position of his eldest son, his overdue rent and his lease has been made quite clear to him. Yes, there is always a way round any problem, Langland reflects, as he pockets the stud book, and turns his attention to a copy of the Sporting Times. Oderint dum metuant: let them hate me as long as they fear me. Langland attended Eton, so he is fond of the classical Roman emperors, especially Caligula.
The train pulls into his station and Langland alights. His coachman is waiting for him, ready to drive him the short distance to the Georgian mansion, set in its own extensive grounds. It was the family home of his wife but has now passed to him upon the death of Lord Fortescue-Arbuthnot, his father-in-law. As soon as they pull up in front of the house, Langland heads straight for the stable where his groom is busy oiling Spartacus’ hooves. Langland greets the man, then leans on the lower stable door, watching him working while at the same time devouring the horse with greedy eyes.
Spartacus won at Sandown Park, came second at Ascot, won again at Goodwood and again at Epsom in June. The animal has the stamina of ten horses, he reflects. He will run him in September at Haydock Park and November at Cheltenham. Meanwhile, a time of rest, short gallops and good nutrition is required to prepare him for the autumn season. The horse needs to be in tip-top condition. Langland can almost hear the chink of guineas. He spends some time talking over his future plans with the groom. After an hour or so, he reluctantly tears himself away and goes into the house to say hello to his wife and assorted offspring.
****
Detective Inspector Stride is a man of his word. Or rather, of many words. His grasp of the English vernacular and his ability to employ it is both widely known and admired amongst his colleagues. Groups of them have been known to gather outside his office just to listen to him expostulating
on some matter that has displeased him. As is the case right now.
The day had started so well. Stride’s noisy neighbours had taken their quarrelsome marriage and screaming offspring to Margate, affording him a decent night’s sleep. His favourite coffee-stall holders were back to provide him with the noxious black brew that fuelled his thinking processes. Only the weather was still working against him, but he was prepared to give it the benefit of the doubt as he strode into Scotland Yard and headed for his office, where the reports of the previous night, plus the newspapers of the current day awaited his attention.
At which point, Stride’s ability for explosive expletives erupted. With such force that a couple of passing constables paused outside his door. The word got round, and soon they were joined by a couple more, so that by the time Jack Cully appears on the scene, the corridor outside Stride’s office is packed. Some of the officers are diligently making notes for future use.
Cully elbows his way through, and, to a muttered chorus of disappointment, enters the office. Cautiously. “Everything alright in here?” he inquires, innocently.
In response, Stride waves a furious hand at a copy of The Inquirer. “I knew he’d do it! The swine! The pusillanimous penny-a-liner petty little hack! Look at this, Jack and give me one good reason why I shouldn’t go straight round to Fleet Street and demand his head?”
Cully picks up the offending newspaper. The banner headline on the front-page reads: Lost Body of Murdered Man MYSTERIOUSLY Returned! Who Is Scotland Yard in League With? He reads on. The piece focuses on the long-defunct crime of bodysnatching. There are oblique references to Burke and Hare, and lurid details of what happens in medical dissections. It is the sort of piece guaranteed to make readers either very angry, or very queasy.
“Ah,” Cully says, replacing the journal upon Stride’s desk. “Oh dear. How unfortunate. I fear this will be taken at face value, won’t it?”
“Of course it will! This is exactly the purpose! He wants people to think we are criminals, supplying London hospitals with bodies by the back door. Journalists like Dandy are utter scum. I only hope one day they will vanish off the face of the earth, and take their false stories with them,” Stride exclaims, sitting himself back down.
“Have any of the other newspapers taken the same line?”
Stride parcels out the pile of daily papers. “See for yourself. I didn’t get any further than The Inquirer.”
Cully pages rapidly through The London Express, The Telegraph, The Times and The Illustrated London Gazette. No references to bodysnatching.
“It looks as if the rest of the press have stuck to the information we supplied,” he says. “Including the police artist’s drawing we sent to them. So hopefully someone will now come forward.”
“Oh, I am quite sure they will,” Stride remarks grimly. “Expect a crowd of irate citizens demanding to know whether their deceased relative was passed to a local hospital for medical investigation before being released for burial ~ yes, I know it is illogical but that is how their minds will work. No smoke without fire. There will be questions asked in Parliament, no doubt, and a sharp letter from the Home Secretary.”
Cully is used to Stride’s tendency always to assume the worst outcomes, so he merely nods in an agreeing fashion without saying he actually agrees with him. At which point there is a knock at the door, which opens to reveal a day constable.
“Desk sergeant says: can you come to the foyer, sir. There’s some people complaining that their son’s body felt ‘light’ when it was returned to them, and they want to find out if anything was ‘taken’ during the autopsy.”
Stride gives Cully a despairing look. “See? Just as I told you. And so it begins.”
****
The Replacement bends his head over his work. His pen moves swiftly along an imaginary line. He tries not to show the intensity of his emotion. This MP, this rich, over-privileged human being exists in a bubble. He has no idea what it is like to be poor, to be homeless, to see your children crying for food and know you have not the wherewithal to feed them.
Every day of his working life the Replacement encounters such people as he walks to and from his place of employment. He sees toothless old women sitting in doorways, minding rag-wrapped infants for farthings. Young boys turn bare-footed cartwheels for pennies. Housewives in crumpled aprons and tattered shawls queue outside small grocers’ shops for the stale loaves, reduced at the end of the day. The only places to prosper are pawnbrokers, and gin-palaces.
Part of his frustration with his employer, apart from his inability to recall his name, lies in his own lack of progress in working out what part, if any, the Honourable Thomas Langland, MP played in the sudden absence of his friend. The Replacement is sure the answer might lie in the locked drawer in Langland’s office. If he could only have sufficient time, and some suitable implement, he might open the drawer and ascertain for himself.
But even though the MP he serves indulges in long lunches, and is in the House to speak or on a committee most afternoons, the Replacement does not dare effect a break-in. Other clerks run in and out of his room with memoranda or reports or messages from other ministries. Langland has, on occasions, returned unexpectedly, forcing his clerk to invent some fictitious reason why he has left his place and entered the inner sanctum of his employer.
The Replacement’s pen scratches on. Meanwhile, Langland, back from a weekend at his country house, is in an unusually talkative mood today. He stands in the doorway, arms folded while he describes the racehorse he owns, and his plans for the next season. He speaks as if talking to some equinely ignorant person, using technical words, expecting his clerk to be impressed. The Replacement remembers the heat of the brazier, the hiss of the shoes as they were thrust into a pail of water, the tap-tap of his father’s hammer, the soft whistling sound he made to keep the horses calm while their new shoes were fitted.
He doubts if his employer has ever curry-combed a horse’s mane, or picked stones out of its hooves, or run his hand down its velvet neck. The care of his horse is of no account. He has grooms to do that. It is only about what the animal is worth. About money. About winning. And once the fine animal has served his purpose, he will be sold to some knacker’s yard and boiled down for glue.
When the bells of the city ring out the mid-day, the Replacement slides off his high stool and leaves the office for a breath of un-fresh air and a ham sandwich. He joins the stream of city clerks also seeking refreshment at the numerous pubs, coffee houses and small eateries that crowd the streets and alleyways around Westminster, losing himself amidst the restless and noisy activity.
There are two types of clerks: the spruce young ones, dapper in bright boots, tight coats, well tied cravats and splendidly coloured waistcoats, who work at the Admiralty or Somerset House, and the solicitors’ clerks, soberly clad in black, with white cravats and waistcoats who mill around Parliament Street and Palace Yard, complete with blue and crimson bags.
The Replacement fits into neither category. He is no cynosure of fashion, nor does he have the gravitas and training of a legal clerk. He has merely been plucked from a pool of similar nonentities to fill another man’s boots. Temporarily, he hopes. Indeed, his status is so insignificant that his employer still cannot remember his name.
He enters a small, neglected tavern, frequented by those who cannot afford to spend much on their mid-day meal, and slides into a vacant booth. Spilled ale and breadcrumbs adorn the table, signs of the previous occupant and negligent bar staff. The Replacement picks up a much-thumbed copy of the morning paper and engrosses himself in it while he waits for his order to be taken.
As he idly flicks through descriptions of the antics of the upper classes, advertisements for goods landed, and the usual strange summer stories about talking goldfish, his eye is caught by the headline halfway down page five: Mystery of A Murdered Man ~ intrigued, he begins to read the article.
A few minutes later, the Replacement hurries out of the tavern, lunchle
ss, the newspaper folded and poking out of his coat pocket. He glances swiftly left, then right, after which he darts across the road and sets off in the direction of Scotland Yard.
Arriving at the police office desk, the Replacement shows the story to the constable on duty, explains why he has come, and is directed to the Anxious Bench to await the return of one of the two detectives dealing with the investigation.
A short but interesting time elapses. The Replacement shares the bench with a large indignant woman smelling of onions, who, spotting a captive audience, proceeds to tell him all about ‘her Samuvell wot was a wictim of a crool gang of dockside robbers’ but whose body had been ‘meddled wiv’ by the forces of law and order and she was here to get justice for him, she was and she wasn’t going to stir from this spot until she did.
The Replacement hasn’t a clue what she is talking about, but he recognises her as one of the populace who conduct their daily lives under the tyranny of the rich and powerful, and is therefore a kindred spirit, so he resorts to nodding sympathetically while making suitably shocked noises, such that when Detective Sergeant Jack Cully enters, and is directed to where he is sitting, the woman is most reluctant to part from him, having discovered a sympathetic soul.
Cully introduces himself, asks what he can do to help the pale young man, who sits so upright, his hands clasped between his knees, his expression tense. The Replacement indicates that it is a matter to be discussed in private. Cully invites him to rise and follow him. Once seated in the small stuffy office Cully shares with two other detectives, the Replacement produces the newspaper and folds it back to the article.
“I believe I may be able to identify the man in this newspaper story,” he says, hesitantly. “It is possible that he used to be a clerk in the same parliamentary office where I now work. I cannot be absolutely certain ~ but from the description in the newspaper, I think it could be him. Do you have a list of his clothes and personal items? He was a friend of mine and I could probably identify him from those.”