[The Victorian Detectives 09] - Desire & Deceit

by Carol Hedges

  Lucy hesitates no longer. She goes into the flat.

  Daylight is beginning to slide from the sky as Lucy Landseer leaves the dance studio. She picks up an omnibus outside the Elephant and Castle Tavern, surrendering herself to the swaying rhythm, while letting her thoughts wander where they take her. What she’d thought was a simple case of reassuring an anxious and grieving client has turned into something much darker and far more complex.

  Reaching her consulting room at last, she writes a hasty note to Rosalind Whitely, requesting her to call round at her earliest convenience. She stresses the importance of keeping the prospective meeting from her stepfather but decides not to reveal why she is making the request.

  In the meantime, Lucy decides to inquire about the legal position of a man who marries two women, whilst still married to a third. It is like the plot of a sensational novel. Or the sort of scandalous, immoral play that would generate strictures from certain high-minded theatre critics and be closed down by order of the Lord Chancellor.

  Never had Lucy imagined, when beginning upon her professional career as a consulting private detective, that she would find herself investigating such a complex case in real life. Her fictitious heroine Belle Batchelor (and her faithful sidekick Harris) have never had to tackle anything as extraordinary. Lucy is beginning to realise that, while in fiction one controls what happens, in real life the plot twists and turns in ways that are beyond even her vivid imagination.

  And yet. Gradually, step by step, the narrative is working towards the final outcome. Will there be more revelations upon the way? Who can tell? Her next move, she decides, is to turn her attention to the central character in the investigation. Yes indeed, Mr Francis Brooke, Lucy thinks, you may hide your past from the world, and from your wives, past and present, but not from me. I am going to expose you for who you really are.

  ****

  London at night. A place of infinite and bewitching variety, where friends, strangers and thousands of visitors are also part of the entertainment. Enchantment pours from every brightly-lit public house, restaurant and theatrical venue. Step inside this palace of varieties and view the gay scene for yourself. Here is a gas-lit fairyland, peopled by merry revellers in various stages of intoxication.

  Chandeliers sparkle brightly, picking out the gold paint adorning boxes and balconies. Supper tables spill across the auditorium floor. This evening the Varieties Music Hall is full ~ one thousand, two hundred patrons are eating, drinking, promenading or just leaning on various ledges watching the acts and each other.

  The newly built proscenium arch separates audience from performers, giving the headliners and other acts a sense of distance, and hopefully adding to their safety. Music hall audiences know what they enjoy, and what to do if they don’t. It is not so long ago that Florrie Firkins, a woman whose prime was long behind her, was hauled off the stage, in full warble, by a disgruntled audience and unceremoniously tossed out of the front door into the street.

  Tonight, however, the Variety plays host to some of the best of contemporary entertainment. Here is Micky Mokey standing in the wings, enjoying a cigarette before it is his turn to go on stage. He watches Little Azella performing her routine. Even though he has seen it countless times, he still has his heart in his mouth.

  A spotlight directs the audience’s attention up to the ceiling, where a tiny female figure in tights and a sparkling waistcoat is seated on a high catwalk. There is a roll of drums and to gasps from the audience below, the figure leaps. But instead of plunging to her death, the tiny acrobat soars to even new heights, balanced precariously on a practically invisible wire.

  Little Azella is a creature of air. She pirouettes, spins, walks up invisible stairs. It is all an illusion of course ~ shadowy figures on the floor act as counterweights, working in concert to keep the ropes taught so that she can turn somersaults or fly straight up into a grand jeté.

  Her act ends with a final dramatic leap straight out over the heads of the audience, causing the diners at the front to duck down as she passes above them. Light as a feather, she balances on the rim of one of the boxes, then turns and bows, holding out her arms in a final farewell before being lifted down into the darkness to roars of applause.

  Micky Mokey feels his shoulders untense. Every night he is afraid that an accident could happen; that Little Azella might fall down into the pit, thrown to her death by some careless stagehand not paying attention, and end up a tiny, crumpled heap of sequins and tinsel on the wooden floor.

  He has just got his breath back when he hears his music being played. Squaring his shoulders, he sets his top hat to a jaunty angle, sticks his gloved hands into his pearl-grey frock coat pockets, and saunters nonchalantly out onto the stage to loud clapping (and a few boos) from the audience.

  The small orchestra strikes up with ‘I’m a Pall Mall Johnnie with a Roving Eye’ as Micky Mokey launches into the popular song, encouraging the audience to join in the chorus:

  “I’ve got no home,

  I just have to roam,

  So, give me champagne or I’ll die, tiddly aye tye.”

  It is pretty mawkish stuff, but they love it, and he has to sing the number twice more before he is allowed to leave the stage. After a second appearance by both artistes, Micky Mokey and his lodging-house companion venture out into the balmy evening for some supper, before their next show.

  The fragrant smell of frying fish lures them to one stall, where they pay for a paper of succulent fish pieces, going on to buy two baked potatoes from another stall. They take their food to a quiet doorway to enjoy in peace.

  “You still got some of that reward money left, then?” Little Azella asks through a mouthful of potato. “You done well there, Micky.”

  Micky Mokey sucks his greasy fingers. “Still don’t know what he’s doing in town, though,” he says. “But I mean to find out.”

  Little Azella shakes her head, causing a small rain of glitter to fall on the step. “Why d’you want to do that, Micky? Leave well alone is my motter. Let the past lie. You did a good deed; you got a reward. The man didn’t reckernise you, as you said. Walk away. No good can come of raking over cold ashes.”

  Micky Mokey doesn’t respond. Mainly because he is very fond of Little Azella, and he wouldn’t want to go offside with her. If you share a poky lodging-house room with someone week in week out, you soon learn many things about them and about their backstory. Mind you, everybody in the entertainment business has a backstory. Mostly bad, which is why they are either running away from it, or mentally re-living it over again, but in a different time and place.

  Little Azella’s story is that she is a Jewess, who had to leave her community when, at six years old, on the back of being taken to a circus, she decided to become a female acrobat, a decision that caused so much consternation that her parents were advised by their rabbi either to lock her up or put her out onto the street.

  In the end, after years of wrangling, she made the decision for them, making her way to London, where the fabled gold-paved streets proved to be a bit of a disappointment, but where she was eventually discovered by Luigi, the Great Stupendo, who taught her the ways of the rope and trapeze when he discovered her, destitute and living in a non-golden alley. Even though she is now topping the bill every night, the heartbreak has never healed. Someday, she says, she will go back to Leicester, a fine lady in a carriage and show them all!

  Micky Mokey always smiles whenever she says this, and replies, ‘Yes, of course you will,’ but inside, he knows it won’t happen. One day, Little Azella will be performing her act as usual, when she’ll step out into thin air. Only this time, there won’t be any rope to save her, and she will fall to earth, like a sweet bird that has been shot, and that will be the end of her dreams, which is, in a way, a metaphor for all of them.

  But until that day, Micky Mokey has plans. He is determined to find out what Sherborne Harbinger is doing in the city. He knows where the man is staying, so tomorrow he is going to posit
ion himself outside the hotel and follow him when he appears. From his first sight of the man in the audience, the memory of him has been an itch on Micky Mokey’s brain. It is like a door you thought you’d locked suddenly opening on a cold night. He cannot ignore it, whatever the consequences. Walking away is not an option. Not yet, anyway.

  And sure enough, next morning, here he is, dressed in a sombre dark suit, with a top hat set low down on his brow. The outfit has been borrowed from the music hall’s costume department and is a little too big for him, but he still looks the perfect replica of a smart city gent. He has strategically applied some stage makeup, to darken his eyebrows and give him the appearance of an incipient moustache.

  Mickey Mokey greets the liveried doorman and, assuming an air of confident authority, enters the Excelsior Hotel, which at this time of day, smells of coffee and fried bacon. He approaches the front desk, where he inquires after Mr Sherborne Harbinger, a guest, in a business-like tone of voice.

  “I am sorry sir, the gentleman in question has just left,” the desk clerk says. “I am surprised you did not run into him.”

  Uttering his thanks, Micky Mokey turns and heads quickly for the door, setting off in the opposite direction. People are pushing their way like badly organised armies, but after a few hectic minutes, he spies his quarry up ahead. He is on his own; the miserable young girl is not with him this time. Micky Mokey edges closer, always keeping two people apart. He sees Sherborne Harbinger enter a coffee house and follows him inside.

  Harbinger goes straight across the room to a table at the back, where he is greeted by another man with a sour face and an unwelcoming expression. At the sight of him, Micky Mokey sucks in his breath. He selects the next table, sliding himself into a seat, with his back to the two men. He orders coffee and a round of toast. Then he helps himself to one of the daily newspapers, and using it as a screen, leans in to the adjacent conversation.

  “So, little brother, I hear you have been visiting Aunt Euphemia behind my back,” Arthur Harbinger says.

  “I was unaware that I had to seek your permission to visit my own relation,” Sherborne Harbinger retorts tartly.

  “It will do you no good to sneak round there and ingratiate yourself,” Arthur Harbinger says. “She doesn’t like you. Or your children. All you are doing, little brother, is making her even more determined to cut you out of her Will.”

  “And you know this for a fact, do you? You have had sight of her Will? How have you managed to do that?” Sherborne snaps.

  A waitress brings coffee to their table. Arthur Harbinger stirs sugar into his cup. “Oh, I have my sources, little brother. Aunt is not going to fall for your tricks, I can assure you.”

  “Oh really? Is she not? Well, I have to inform you, she made a great pet of Harriet t’other day and indeed she has begged me ~ begged me, to let her visit again. Which I intend to do. What a shame you have no dear children to lisp and prattle at your knee and endear themselves to a rich dying aunt. But then, you were never one for the ladies, were you, Arthur. Or children in general. I remember how you used to torment our little sister when we were young.”

  “As did you, I recall. Far more than ever I did, since I was away at boarding school for most of the time. I warn you, Sherborne,” Arthur Harbinger hisses, jabbing across the table at his brother with his spoon to emphasise the words. “We agreed that all visits to the Chelsea house would be made jointly. You have broken our agreement. You will not steal a march on me. Not now, not ever. I am the elder. I inherit first.”

  “Pooh, stuff and nonsense,” Sherborne Harbinger scoffs. He gulps down his coffee and rises to his feet. “If this is all you wanted to see me about, Arthur, then I’m off. My family is waiting. We are going to visit the British Museum, and then after luncheon, I think I shall take the children round to visit their dear great aunt at the Chelsea house that one day will be mine. They can impress her with their knowledge of the Assyrians. I’m sure she will be delighted to see them again. Good day to you, sir.”

  Micky Mokey waits a few seconds, then pays for his toast and leaves. Crossing the road, he saunters off towards Oxford Street, hands in pockets, the picture of a perfect city swell. After what he has just overheard, he has a lot to think about. He is also slightly dreading arriving at the music hall. Ever since the night he serenaded her, Liza-Lou keeps seeking him out and simpering foolishly at him, much to the displeasure of the assistant stage-manager. Micky Mokey has told Liza-Lou in no uncertain terms that he is not interested in her, but she refuses to believe him. It is causing difficulties with her putative swain, who has miscued him a couple of times. Possibly accidentally, but probably not.

  As he skilfully weaves his way around the shopping crowds and other pavement detritus, he thinks back to the little scene he has just witnessed in the coffee house. Once again, he was not recognised at all. Astonishing! At this point, Mikey Mokey’s good angel, who sometimes goes by the name of Little Azella, tells him to leave it there and not push his luck. However, there is a certain thrill in placing himself in a risky situation ~ he guesses it is very much the same thrill that Little Azella feels when she launches herself off the wire into thin air. So no, he isn’t going to listen.

  ****

  Miss Lucy Landseer, on the other hand, has been doing a great deal of listening. Not to mention thinking and making notes. And as a result, she is quite prepared when her young client Rosalind Whitely knocks on the door of the consulting room. Lucy greets her, and ushers her to the clientele chair (now furnished with a rather attractive Chinese print cushion) before bringing her own chair (un-cushioned) round so that she can sit next to her.

  The client lifts her veil, revealing a face even more worn than last time they met, her eyes red-rimmed and haunted. Lucy’s heart goes out to her. To be so young, and so unhappy. And she is about to add even more unhappiness to the burden already carried.

  “Before I hear what you have to tell me, Miss Landseer, I must tell you of a development in my own life. My stepfather has informed me that it is his intention to sell the house. It is his house now, you know. He inherited it from my mother. He has decided it is far too big for two people, too expensive to run, and the number of servants is surplus to our requirements.

  “He has already got rid of two of the maids, who have been with the family for years. I am trying to be reasonable, to accord with his wishes, but it is the home I have lived in from a child. All my memories are there. I am finding it very hard ~ very hard indeed, Miss Landseer,” her voice falters. She takes a handkerchief from her bag and mops her eyes.

  Lucy waits patiently, and in silence, for her client to recover her equilibrium.

  “I believe that I told you I have been left a small inheritance from my parents, which I have offered as a contribution to the running of the house, but my stepfather says it is not nearly enough. Today, even as we speak, he is visiting an estate agent to discover how much the house would sell for. He mentions moving out of London altogether ~ Cheltenham, Gloucester, perhaps, or another town in that area. He says he can easily find work in such a place. He speaks about renting a room in London temporarily while he changes location and employment. He does not mention me in any of his plans. Oh, Miss Landseer, the thought of leaving London, of being unable to visit my dear parents’ graves, never to place flowers upon them ~ the pain is so great. What is to become of me?”

  Lucy leans forward and places her hand upon the trembling arm of the young woman sitting opposite. “I promise you, Miss Whitely, that you will NOT have to leave your family home, unless or until it is of your own volition,” she says firmly. “Now, dry your eyes. I shall tell you why I am so confident in my pronouncement. But I warn you, you must be brave, and prepare yourself, for I am the bearer of shocking news: The sale of the house cannot go ahead because your stepfather does not own it. Mr Brooke has a wife still living ~ and I have met her and spoken to her.”

  Rosalind Whitely’s young face drains of all colour. She starts swaying in her s
eat, her eyes rolling upwards, wide and unfocussed. Lucy leaps from her chair, and just manages to catch her as she slumps forward. She lies her client gently on the floor, then goes to fill the kettle. Tea, strong and hot, with plenty of sugar is the best medicine for shock. And then, after tea, the construction of a plan.

  ****

  Meanwhile, Detective Sergeant Jack Cully is taking his young protégé, Constable Tom Williams, for an instructive stroll. He is aware that the young man played an important part at the outset of the investigation into Robertson’s stolen body. He wrote an exemplary report. He accompanied Cully on a site visit and to various other places.

  Now that the search for a perpetrator seems to have petered out and the investigation has been closed, Cully does not want the young officer to get discouraged. The detective division is in need of new blood. Several officers have indicated they are intending to retire at the end of the year. Detective Inspector Stride is always going to retire at the end of every year, although so far, he has never done so.

  As they walk side by side down the street, at the pace known to every police officer in the country as ‘proceeding’, Cully shares some of his professional insights, picked up during his long career in the Metropolitan Police Force.

  “Whenever you are called to a crime scene, it is vitally important that you go through the proper procedures. They never vary. First, always note the position of the body. Make a sketch of it ~ if you can. Make a note of exactly where you found the body, the clothes the deceased is wearing and the surface they are lying on. Then, note all the objects and items close to the body.

  “At some time in the future, you may be called upon to give evidence at a coroner’s inquest. If you have made careful and thorough notes, you will be well placed to do so. I have attended many inquests where the officer who found the body did not make notes and has subsequently forgotten all the small details that might cause the coroner to decide the death was criminal in nature. If it is deemed accidental, because no good evidence has been submitted to indicate the contrary, we cannot proceed to investigate and so justice is not done.”