by Carol Hedges
“Ah. I see. Unfortunately, he has been buried,” Cully says. “In this heat, we couldn’t keep the body for long, I’m sure you understand. But I certainly have the list of the clothes he wore and there is a box of his personal possessions. If you can tell us who he was, I should be most grateful as we would then be able to let his family know. I shall fetch the list for you.”
Cully is gone a few minutes, giving the Replacement time to get control of his feelings and prepare himself. Even so, when he studies the list, recognises the clothes, sees the watch chain, black pen, and other possessions that he has seen about the person of his friend on so many occasions, he feels his throat clotting, and hot tears fill his eyes.
Suddenly, he is faced with the truth; he had always secretly hoped that somewhere, his friend still lived and he would meet him again one day when they would share a drink and exchange stories, and he would tell him everything he’d discovered about Thomas Langland during his absence. In his short life, the Replacement has only ever counted two men as friends. One emigrated to America to seek a better world. The other now lies under the sod in an unmarked grave.
Cully observes his pain. He waits until control has been achieved, then pushes a piece of paper across the desk. “Can you give us the name of your friend, his address, and his place of work?”
The Replacement writes. After a few minutes, he raises his head. “Where was his body found? I should like to visit the place. To get a picture in my mind of his last moments. And I should like to know where he was buried also.”
Cully jots down the locations of both. “I can also give you the name of the constable who discovered the body. He will be able to answer any further questions you might have. For now, please accept my condolences and know that I and my colleagues are grateful to you for coming forward. Your information will be of much help in finding his family.”
The Replacement nods. He sits in silence for a few seconds. Then he rises, shakes Cully’s hand without making any eye contact, and departs, clutching the scrap of paper. Cully waits until the sense of sadness has evaporated from the room. Then he goes to find Stride and convey the good news.
Detective Inspector Stride listens attentively as Cully outlines the interview with the young parliamentary clerk. “So now at last we have a name for our victim,” he says. “Good. We are making progress. I dislike having to bury a man without his next of kin knowing that he died.”
“You don’t think that his employer could have had anything to do with the death?” Cully muses. “I wonder whether the cigar we found could have some connection to him? A rich man’s cigar?”
Stride glances down at the Replacement’s note and pulls a face. “The Honourable Thomas Langland, MP? Much as I dislike members of Parliament, especially members of the Conservative Party, I doubt it. Too risky. In this day and age, it is almost impossible for a man in high office to keep his private affairs out of the public eye. There’s always some journalist with a notebook standing in the shadows ready to expose him. And once his dark deeds hit the front page, that’s the end of him.”
“So why was the man murdered? It clearly wasn’t for his possessions.”
Stride shakes his head. “Who knows? Why does anyone murder? Usually, in my experience, it comes down to either money or passion. In this case ~ we may never know. The young man you spoke to did not mention a significant relationship? No? Well then. I am as in the dark as you.”
“I still don’t understand why the theft of the body.”
“A rather crude attempt by whoever committed the deed to prevent the finger of blame pointing at him?”
Cully purses his lips. “Seems rather desperate. I still think it might be worth speaking to Mr Langland before we close the investigation. Just to confirm that he had nothing to do with it. Do you agree?”
Stride picks up a pencil and starts twirling it thoughtfully between his fingers. “Ah. Well, Jack, we’d have to proceed very carefully if we decide to go down that path. Yes, indeed we would. The man’s a popular member of Parliament. He delivers speeches that get recorded in the papers. He sits on various influential committees. There is talk of making him a Cabinet Minster someday soon.
“If we start making waves, trying to incriminate him in anything as sordid as a murder, even if he has nothing to do with it, next thing we know, there’ll be a letter of complaint put in to the Home Secretary, and then we’ll have all and sundry breathing down our necks. Let alone the popular press. I can just imagine the headlines in The Inquirer: ‘Popular Politician Persecuted by Police.”
A price worth paying, Cully thinks, though he does not share his thoughts. “But the cigar …” he begins.
Stride cuts across him. “Ah, yes, the curious incident of the cigar in the night-time. Was the cigar smoked in the night-time? Or was it dropped there, accidentally, by some passing smoker? We will never know. And we have no way of finding out. The cigar, to mix metaphors, is rather a red herring.”
“So where do we go from here?” Cully asks.
“We do not go anywhere,” Stride says. “We write to his family. If they wish us to pursue matters, then we may have to continue. Until then, as far as I am concerned, the investigation is closed. We have gone as far as we can.”
But have we? Cully muses, as he makes his way back to his desk. Why did someone go to a lot of trouble to break into the police morgue, steal a body, and then dispose of it in the canal? And what did this young man know that made his death and subsequent disappearance a matter of such importance?
****
Meanwhile, the Replacement hurries back to his place of work. He is still in shock at the revelation of his friend’s murder. As he walks, he thinks about the interview with the detective. Should he have mentioned his friend’s suspicions? Ought he to return and reveal what was told to him in confidence? What difference might it make? If any.
He hears a church bell strike the three-quarters, which means he has exceeded the time allocated for his luncheon. Another time, then. He picks up the pace, but as it happens he is in luck, for Langland himself has not returned. The House is on its last few days before recess, and a certain laxity is therefore now permissible. Not for the clerks, of course, who will be expected to labour on over the summer.
The Replacement takes the cover off his desk, sets up his pens and inks and begins to copy some papers, but his thoughts are adrift. This was where his friend sat. This his desk, every groove and scratch in the wooden surface was familiar to him. Here he sat on the day he met his death. What thoughts were going through his mind, as his pen flowed smoothly across the paper?
Did he think of the evening meeting they were both due to attend? The Replacement casts his mind back to the room above the Star & Garter public house, the German speaker, his black beard, and tweed suit stained with tobacco, his crumpled cream shirt and untidy cravat, the eager audience of young men hanging on his every word as he expounded upon philosophy and German literature.
The Replacement had sat at the back, letting the words flow over him, his eyes periodically straying to the door, wondering where his friend was, why he hadn’t sent word that he couldn’t be there. After the lecture, he had gone straight round to his friend’s lodgings, only to be told by the landlady that a message had been delivered and her lodger had gone out to meet someone. He had not returned. He had not returned the next night either.
And then, a request went out for a new clerk, and the Replacement was plucked from the pool and selected to take over his desk. This desk. It was just as if his friend had evaporated, had never existed. He had not made a specific link between the actual disappearance and the man whose office lies just a few steps beyond the oak door. A coincidence. But now, now he has discovered that his friend has been murdered, his thoughts are beginning to move along that path, although he cannot see any clear connection at present.
Time passes. The light thins. The day wears on. His friend’s presence is here in the room, insisting on being acknowledged. He
finishes copying another report. He sets down his pen. He raises his head. Listens. No familiar footsteps on the stair. He checks the time: if he hasn’t appeared by now, it is unlikely that the Honourable Thomas Langland is going to put in an appearance today.
The Replacement packs away his writing materials and covers his desk. He is tired, so tired he can feel it in his bones. But it is time to begin his journey to that place where his only friend drew his final breath, in the hope that he can make that connection, to help him discover what happened on that fateful night. He steps out of the room and begins to walk.
It takes him some time to find the building site and when he finally does, it is to see the workmen packing up for the day. The Replacement stands on the other side of what was once a small street but is now the muddy access road to a cluster of brand-new cheap houses, sprouting like fungi out of the London clay.
A large sign affixed to a hoarding proclaims: Wm. Boxworth & Co. Fine New Dwellings for Sale or Rent. Inquire at the Site Office. Some half-demolished buildings still remain, overlooking the site, with their side walls already taken down. Sprigged wallpaper and paint, wooden floorboards, a dresser, bear witness to previous occupants now scattered to the four winds, or probably a couple of already over-crowded tenements close by.
The Replacement is not sure exactly where his friend met his end. He walks up and down past the wooden hoardings, trying to summon him mentally. As he reaches the corner of one side, he is hailed roughly.
“Oi, you, young man ~ what’re you doing here?”
He turns. The interlocuter is a small squat man in a loud check suit. He has dusty work-boots, small suspicious eyes, and an ugly pock-marked face. He carries a set of keys and a folder of documents. The Replacement presumes he is the site foreman. He approaches.
“Please excuse my presence. A good friend died close to this site. I came to see for myself. That is the whole purpose of my visit. I mean no harm.”
The small ugly man comes closer. And closer still. He stares hard at the Replacement. There is no warmth or compassion in the stare; it is the sort of stare a vulture might bestow on potential prey. The Replacement holds his position. He isn’t committing any crime, he tells himself. The man has no weapon, and there are plenty of workmen streaming out of the gate, so he is not in any danger.
“I see,” the man says slowly, never taking his eyes off the young man’s face. “And ’oo was this friend of yours, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Something about the tone of the question, coupled with the stare, that is going on for far too long for comfort, starts warning bells sounding in the Replacement’s brain. A feeling of repulsion and of something akin to fear begins to steal over him.
“Oh, he was someone who went to a discussion group I attended. I did not know where he had actually died until I read an article about it in the newspaper,” he says vaguely.
“Oh, did you now. Read it in the newspaper, eh? And what did this h’article say?”
“It had a description of him and a request from the police for help in identifying who he was.”
“Which, as a good citizen, you went and did, I presume?”
The Replacement nods. The way the man is studying him so intently is unsettling him. He feels an urgent need to remove himself from his presence. “I shall go now,” he says. “I apologise for disturbing you.”
“Wait up, wait up, young ’un,” the man says, swinging his bunch of keys in what could be interpreted as a threatening manner. “Tell me some more about this friend of yours. What was his name? Where did he work?”
“We were friends, that is all. Good day to you, sir,” the Replacement says, walking away. His heart is pounding. When he has put some distance between himself and the building site, he stops and glances back: the man hasn’t moved. He is still standing there, staring fixedly after him, swinging his keys slowly in one hand.
****
Miss Lucy Landseer, female private detective, is also trying to make connections in her ongoing investigation into the life and wives of Francis Brooke. Here she is crossing London Bridge and entering the borough of Southwark, described in Bradshaw’s Illustrated Handbook to London and Its Environs as: ‘one of the most animated parts of the metropolis, from the extent of the business carried on in this extensive locality’. Lucy’s research has also elicited that this area was the site of the Globe theatre ~ where the plays of William Shakespeare were acted. Had she walked these streets in the sixteenth century, as opposed to today, she might even have encountered the great man himself on the way to the theatre, clutching the quill-written pages of his latest piece. It is a thrilling thought.
Reaching the high street, Lucy pauses outside the Talbot Inn, to remind herself that this historic building was the actual location of the Tabard Inn, the staging post where Geoffrey Chaucer, Knight, and his twenty-nine pilgrims lodged on their way to Canterbury. And in a way, she reminds herself, she is also on a pilgrimage, to seek out the shrine of truth. It is always a pleasure to ally oneself with the great literary figures of the past.
As she advances towards her destination, her small nose is assailed by the smells of vinegar, leather, sulphur, brewing, glue, and from one small street she passes, the unexpected odour of strawberry jam. Everything is unfamiliar, distinct, and different. Truly, she is in foreign territory!
On the corner of Dover Street and Blackman Street, a two-horse-drawn omnibus to Clapham and Lord Wellington clops past. A couple of men in bowler hats look down at her admiringly. Lucy tosses her head and ignores them. She is a modern girl, not for her the sly male glance, the calculating stare. She continues walking towards the white-towered church at the end of the street, checking the building numbers until she reaches Number 150 ~ which proves to be a butcher’s shop, with joints of meat set out and hung in the window.
Lucy enters, picking her way daintily across the sawdust floor. She approaches the counter, where the butcher, who resembles every butcher she has ever encountered, being big, red-faced, with a bristly moustache and beefy sausage-fingers, is sharpening a vicious-looking knife on a grindstone.
“Well, good day, young lady,” he says, carefully placing the knife down on a thick wooden chopping board and turning to face her. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes. Nah then, wot can I get you? Nice bit of steak for your man’s tea? Fry up a treat wiv an onion and a few p’tatoes. What d’you fink? I can do you a special price, coz I likes the look of yer pretty face.”
Lucy dimples her refusal. “I’m sure that would be lovely, but I am here to find somebody,” she says. “His name is Mr Francis Brooke. This is the last address I have for him. Do you recognise that name by any chance?”
The butcher folds his meaty arms and stares down at her. “I fink you’d better arsk Miss Leonora ~ she has the Dancing Academy upstairs. You can go straight up; there ain’t no pupils. I know coz I’d hear them overhead if there was. Like a herd of bloomin’ elephants they are.”
Lucy recalls there was an advertisement for The Select Leonora Dance School on the wall outside the shop. She climbs the bare wooden steps and knocks at a door labelled ‘Dance Academy: Lessons for Beginners and Experienced Dancers. 1/- an hour. Children to Adults. Special Rates for Couples. Enquire Within.’
Lucy’s knock is answered by a very short woman with very tall golden hair piled above her head in a series of random ringlets, cascades and curls, decorated with bright pink and green feathers. The effect is startling, especially when combined with a low-cut emerald-green silk dress, shiny red lips, pink cheeks and an armful of jangly silver bangles. She wears pink dancing pumps on her feet and carries a silver-topped stick, which she clasps in her be-ringed fingers as she peers up at Lucy.
“Good afternoon, young lady. You wish to inquire about dancing lessons, I presume?”
Lucy shakes her head. “No. Thank you. I’m looking for information about a certain individual, and hoping you can help me. His name is Mr Francis Brooke. Have you come across him by any chance?”
<
br /> She shows the woman the photograph of the couple posing at the lych-gate. The intricately head-dressed woman’s face immediately changes. Her colour fades, leaving two vivid spots of rouge on each cheek, and her eyes harden into icy points. She breathes in sharply, her grip on the stick tightening.
“And who are you?” she asks, her tone harsh, as she stares at the photograph in Lucy’s hand.
“I am the person inquiring about him,” Lucy says, smiling her most winning smile.
“Why are you inquiring, may I ask?”
“It is a private matter.”
“I see. A private matter. Yes. Well, I can tell you that is certainly Francis Brooke. I’d know him anywhere. But I don’t recognise the woman with him, though.”
“She was his wife. She died a short while ago.”
The woman laughs unpleasantly. “Was she now. His wife, you say? Ah. His wife. That is interesting. Because, you see, young woman, I am Mrs Leonora Brooke, his wife. I have been his wife for nine years. And as you can see, I’m still very much alive.”
Lucy’s jaw drops open. Her eyes widen in shock. “You … you … are his wife?” she stutters.
“Yes, you weren’t expecting that, were you? I can see by the look on your face. But it is true. I can show you my marriage certificate if you don’t believe me. But as for where he is now, I can’t help you there, because I haven’t seen nor heard from Mr Francis Brooke for a long time. In fact, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the scoundrel since he ran off with all our savings and the profits from the Dance Academy!”
Lucy continues to gape at her, words failing.
“Well, make up your mind, young woman,” says the first Mrs Brooke sharply, tapping her stick impatiently on the floor. “I’m not going to stand here all day. If you want to hear about my marriage to that man, either come in, or else be on your way.”