Watchers of the Dead

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘You look nice,’ she said, looking him up and down appraisingly. ‘Fashionable and smart. Who would have thought it of such an unsavoury rogue?’

  ‘The same might be said of you,’ he retorted, wondering why it was that every time he found himself admiring Hulda, she nipped the fondness in the bud with her sharp tongue.

  He led the way inside and looked around for someone in authority. Eventually, he saw a young man with a massive moustache, who transpired to be George Edwardes, the theatre’s managing director. Edwardes refused to answer questions at first, claiming he was too busy, but changed his mind when Hulda batted her eyelashes at him.

  ‘We understand that the three Africans from the Congo came here recently,’ Lonsdale began, ‘with staff from the new Natural History Museum.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Edwardes, addressing Hulda. ‘An elderly professor, his assistant and three charming black companions. They attended several performances. The first time, the Africans listened in silence, but during the second, they began to sing along with the chorus. We had to ask them to stop.’

  ‘Did they mind?’ asked Lonsdale.

  Edwardes continued to speak to Hulda. ‘They were nonplussed, and clearly of the opinion that such joyous music should be bellowed from the stalls.’

  ‘Describe them,’ said Lonsdale.

  ‘Two men and a woman,’ Edwardes told Hulda. ‘Handsome people – tall and strong, with beautiful white teeth. They were dressed plainly but fashionably and spoke no English – the elderly man interpreted for them.’

  ‘You say they came several times?’ asked Hulda.

  Edwardes nodded. ‘However, if you want to know more, I’ll take you backstage later to meet Alice Barnett. She plays the Fairy Queen and talked to them more than anybody else here.’ He winked at her. ‘Your friend can stay out here and talk to the porters.’

  ‘You’re very generous,’ said Hulda, ‘but he’s my secretary and I’ll need him to take notes. Besides, an important man like you will be far too busy to waste time accompanying us. We’ll make our own way backstage – with your permission.’

  ‘Then here’s a pass,’ said Edwardes, handing her a card. ‘But when you’ve finished with Alice, leave your secretary here and come to find me.’ He leered meaningfully.

  ‘It will be past my bedtime,’ said Hulda smoothly. ‘But perhaps I’ll take you up on your offer tomorrow.’

  She sashayed away, leaving him red-faced and ogling in her wake. Lonsdale trotted to keep up with her.

  ‘Will you?’ he asked. ‘Come back tomorrow?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lonsdale! Indeed, I don’t want to be here tonight, so I suggest we find a chophouse, and come back when the show’s over. I detest light opera, and I can’t imagine what the Kumu found to enjoy in it. I’ve always assumed you had to be English to understand or appreciate it.’

  ‘We promised Peters to look for the Kumu here,’ Lonsdale pointed out. ‘I doubt they’ll appear, but if they do and we fail to raise the alarm, Peters will be disappointed in us.’

  Hulda sighed. ‘Very well. I suppose I can always sleep when the lights go down.’

  Iolanthe was good-natured fun; although Hulda was bored, Lonsdale enjoyed it. Halfway through, he remembered that he had promised to take Anne to see it, but he had been too busy to set a date. He hoped she would never find out he had gone with Hulda instead, sure it would lead to ructions.

  As he stood at the end of the final act, he felt he was being watched. He assumed it was Voules again, but then saw Emelia Humbage standing on the opposite side of the theatre, staring at him. Her parents were with her but, more to the point, so was Anne. She nudged Anne and whispered in her ear. Anne turned and her eyes met Lonsdale’s.

  He smiled and waved, mouthing ‘work’ but, even from that distance, he could see her looking rather hard at Hulda, who was facing the other way – in her evening dress, he was not surprised that Anne did not recognize her. Aiming to nip any misunderstanding in the bud, he abandoned Hulda to fend for herself and began to make his way to the foyer, but his side of the theatre was more crowded than Anne’s, and by the time he reached it, she had gone.

  ‘Are you looking for my daughter?’ came a cool voice, and Lonsdale’s heart sank when he recognized the haughty tones of Sir Gervais Humbage, his prospective father-in-law.

  Humbage was a retired brigadier, and everything about him suggested he was used to being obeyed. He was pompous, narrow-minded and patriarchal, and was one of the reasons Lonsdale sometimes wondered if marrying Anne was a good idea. Humbage was clearly of the opinion that Lonsdale was not good enough for her and deplored the fact that he had given up a respectable career in the Colonial Service to follow the insalubrious profession of journalism.

  ‘Yes – to tell her why I’m here,’ explained Lonsdale politely. ‘I’m working on a—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it, and nor will she,’ interrupted Humbage curtly. ‘You promised to bring her to see this opera, but instead you come with another woman. She deserves better.’

  Lonsdale bristled that Humbage should dare berate him. ‘It wasn’t a—’

  ‘Lord Carlingford wouldn’t countenance such behaviour,’ interrupted Humbage sternly. ‘He has lofty standards, and I mean to emulate them. He’s a great man, and a very good friend.’

  Lonsdale stifled a sigh. Humbage had recently been introduced to one or two courtiers, and now claimed them as intimates, although they were no more than casual acquaintances. And Lonsdale was sure the brusque Carlingford would have scant time for such an ambitious social climber.

  ‘I met Carlingford at the Natural History Museum today,’ he said, more to change the subject than to win Humbage’s approbation. ‘He was there to arrange a royal visit.’

  ‘And I suppose you were reporting,’ said Humbage, managing to inject such scorn into the last word that Lonsdale bristled anew. ‘Did you attempt to interview him? I can’t see him having time to chat to the press.’

  ‘We talked at length,’ lied Lonsdale, sure Humbage would never know the truth. ‘Although not as long as I talked to Fleetwood-Pelham.’

  Humbage sniffed. ‘Sir Algernon will natter to anyone – he’s a dreadful rumour-monger. He never married, of course – it’s a pity Anne is promised to you, because he’s a much better catch.’

  ‘He’s also old enough to be her father.’

  ‘All women need the guidance of older men,’ declared Humbage. ‘Indeed, it should be made law, and then we wouldn’t have callow youths demanding the hands of our impressionable daughters and tainting them with inappropriate opinions. Indeed, Lord Carlingford said as much to me only last week, in the Athenaeum, where he invited me to dine.’

  He began to brag about the occasion and held forth for several minutes before Lonsdale realized it had not been a cosy tête-à-tête, but an event with some sixty guests, at which Humbage had been a good distance from the host.

  ‘Originally, I was seated next to a wealthy merchant from Birmingham,’ Humbage hissed. ‘That terrible place, which is a blot on England’s green and pleasant land. But Sir Algernon saw my dismay and placed me betwixt two courtiers from St James’s Palace. I’d have left if I’d been obliged to endure the merchant. He had an accent.’

  He shuddered fastidiously, and Lonsdale felt his dislike of the man intensify. He made his excuses before they could quarrel and went to find Hulda.

  ‘Pompous ass,’ he muttered as he walked, wondering whether it would be Humbage or Emelia who would contrive to see him in the most trouble with Anne. Both would like nothing more than to see her marry someone else, and although Anne was strong-minded and intelligent, he knew she was finding it hard to ignore the two-pronged campaign to discredit him. He only hoped she would hold out until their wedding day, after which the Humbages would be stuck with him, whether they liked it or not.

  Alice Barnett was the D’Oyley Carte’s most popular performer. She was a portly contralto, who delighted audiences with her stout Fairy Q
ueen, and it was said that Gilbert had written the role especially for her. When Lonsdale and Hulda reached her dressing room, she was busily removing the thick face-paints that transformed her from a plump, motherly woman into a rosy-cheeked sprite. The room was cluttered and not very clean; somewhere nearby, two men were arguing furiously.

  ‘Mr Gilbert and Mr Sullivan,’ explained Alice. ‘They don’t like each other very much, and it’s astonishing that they continue to produce operettas that the nation loves.’

  ‘Does the nation love them?’ asked Hulda baldly. ‘I thought audiences have been falling.’

  Alice’s smile was strained. ‘Iolanthe isn’t their best work, but they’re already working on another. Princess Ida will satirize women’s education and the theories of Mr Charles Darwin.’

  Hulda’s expression hardened. ‘What is wrong with women’s education?’

  Alice shrugged. ‘Nothing, I suppose, if you’ve time for it. Personally, I think everyone would be better off learning about music. After all, angels sing – they don’t sit around reading Greek plays or doing Latin declensions.’

  ‘We wondered if you would tell us about the Kumu,’ said Lonsdale, before she and Hulda could argue – it would be a pity if they lost important information because Hulda had a progressive attitude to women’s education, and Alice was still in the land of the fairies.

  Alice frowned. ‘The what?’

  ‘The foreign visitors who so loved your performances. Mr Edwardes said they wanted to sing along with the chorus.’

  Alice smiled. ‘Oh, them! They’re Kumu, are they? I thought they were African.’

  ‘They’re cannibals,’ put in Hulda mischievously.

  ‘They’re not,’ countered Alice with conviction. ‘When they came once, I ordered in some beef sandwiches, but they refused to eat them. They’d have gobbled them down if they’d been cannibals, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Only if they were cows,’ Hulda pointed out with impeccable logic.

  ‘They were lovely people,’ Alice went on. ‘Polite and gentle. They only heard the music once, but they were able to sing it back to me almost word perfect. It was remarkable. Unfortunately, they only have one volume – loud.’

  ‘How could they be word perfect?’ asked Lonsdale, puzzled. ‘They speak virtually no English.’

  ‘That is what made it so impressive,’ replied Alice. ‘Astonishing folk!’

  ‘When was the last time you saw them?’

  Alice considered carefully. ‘Two weeks ago today. They came with that nice Professor Dickerson and his assistant Mr Roth. The two of them were very solicitous of the Africans, and I remember thinking it was a joy to see people who had a genuine liking and respect for each other. Indeed, I was rather jealous of it.’

  ‘Why is it that you can remember the day?’ asked Hulda suspiciously.

  ‘Because the Queen was here. She wanted to meet me, so the Kumu had to wait.’ Alice dropped her voice as she leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me, I had more fun with the Kumu.’

  THREE

  The next morning, Saturday, it was drizzling heavily – the kind of rain that might last for days – and the sky was a monotonous iron grey. Lonsdale looked out of his window to see two bedraggled sparrows on the sill. He opened it and threw them some biscuit crumbs, but they flew away without taking them.

  It had been very late by the time he had returned from the Savoy. He felt muddle-headed from lack of sleep, and even a wash in cool water and a hasty shave did nothing to invigorate him. He left his bedchamber and went downstairs, hoping to find a fresh pot of tea. Or better yet, coffee, although the cook had yet to learn how to make it properly. He wondered what would happen when Jack was married, as Emelia was not a lady to endure substandard beverages first thing in the morning. And what happened in Jack’s household would affect Lonsdale, as the plan was for him – and Anne once she became his wife – to continue living there.

  It had been Anne’s idea. She pointed out that Jack’s fine, six-storeyed house in Cleveland Square, Bayswater, was too large for one couple. Ergo, Jack and Emelia would occupy the second-floor, she and Lonsdale the third, and they would share the reception rooms below. Her plan suited everyone. Anne and Emelia had always been close and were delighted that they would have each other for company when their husbands were out, while Jack was happy to have his spare rooms used, and Lonsdale would not have to rent somewhere less convenient. It was the perfect solution, and there was only one fly in the ointment as far as Lonsdale was concerned: Emelia. Lonsdale had finally admitted to himself that he disliked her intensely, and he knew she detested him.

  He pushed her from his mind as he entered the morning room. Jack was already there and looked up from The Times with a smile. There could be no question that they were siblings. Jack was older and heavier, but they shared the same brown hair and open, friendly faces.

  ‘You’re in trouble, my lad,’ said Jack. ‘I sat with Emelia’s grandmother while the family went to the Savoy Theatre last night. When they got back, there was much discussion of the fact that you’d been there, too, with a beautiful woman. Anne is hurt and bewildered – you promised to go with her.’

  Lonsdale groaned. ‘It might have gone unnoticed if Emelia hadn’t drawn everyone’s attention to me.’

  Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s no defence! And don’t blame my fiancée for your shabby antics. Who was this beautiful woman anyway? Do I know her?’

  ‘Hulda,’ replied Lonsdale glumly, slumping at the table and helping himself to lukewarm tea. He noticed that the tablecloth was badly in need of a wash, while there were ancient crumbs on the carpet. He wondered how long it would be before Emelia dismissed Jack’s hopeless but likeable servants and hired others.

  Jack laughed his disbelief. ‘Emelia would never describe Hulda as beautiful!’

  ‘Then shame on her, because Hulda is very pretty,’ flashed Lonsdale, surprised by the anger that sparked at the notion of his colleague being insulted by Emelia.

  ‘Well, no one will believe it was her they saw, so you’d better devise a more plausible lie before you next see them.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’ Lonsdale went to the mantelpiece, where he fiddled with the dinosaur claw that sat there waiting to be delivered to the Natural History Museum. ‘Ask Hulda – she’ll tell you.’

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ said Jack. ‘She thinks a lot of you.’

  Lonsdale looked sharply at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Just that she’s fonder of you than she lets on, and will certainly lie for you, should it be required. Anne knows this, so I’d leave Hulda out of it, if I were you.’

  ‘I’ll visit Anne this morning and explain,’ sighed Lonsdale, feeling he did not have time for such pettiness. He had to be at the mortuary at noon, and there was work to do first at The PMG offices in Northumberland Street.

  ‘Then good luck. But be warned: she won’t put up with this sort of thing once you’re married.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ objected Lonsdale. ‘I haven’t done anything!’

  ‘Sir George Bowyer has died,’ said Jack, changing the subject. ‘He was a good man. And so soon on the heels of poor Haldane, who was killed in the Royal Courts of Justice two weeks ago. They’ll be missed, and my profession is the poorer without them.’

  ‘Bowyer was a barrister?’ asked Lonsdale, leaning forward to read the back of the paper Jack was holding, even though he knew it was a habit his brother found annoying.

  ‘A very influential one – he was the foreman of the grand jury that sent Maclean to trial for trying to shoot the Queen. He was once a Member of Parliament as well, although I forget which constituency.’

  ‘He must’ve been pleased when Maclean was found “not guilty, but insane” and sent to Broadmoor,’ said Lonsdale, most of his attention on an article about Egyptian dervishes.

  ‘Actually, he wasn’t. He felt the verdict should have been “guilty, but insane”. So did
Haldane. They were right: Maclean did shoot at the Queen, so how could he be not guilty? Bowyer and Haldane were two of several barristers who wanted the law amended.’

  ‘I suppose it doesn’t make much difference in the end,’ shrugged Lonsdale. ‘Maclean will spend the rest of his life in an asylum, regardless. Or he would have done, if he hadn’t escaped.’

  Jack suddenly became aware that Lonsdale was reading his paper. He snapped it down and shoved a different one across the table. It was The Echo, Voules’s paper, which both brothers refused to buy.

  ‘Read this instead. The housekeeper must’ve sent it up by mistake, and I imagine that as we speak she’s deep in The Daily Telegraph’s analysis of the scientific value of the Transit of Venus, which will not occur again until the year two thousand and four.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Lonsdale in distaste, pushing it back at him.

  ‘You should – it contains a piece claiming that Maclean is living in one of the better gentlemen’s clubs, armed with the best weapons money can buy.’

  ‘If the club is named, it means Voules applied to join and was rejected,’ said Lonsdale.

  ‘I can’t get over the news about Bowyer,’ sighed Jack after a moment. ‘And Haldane. Moreover, I read today that Professor Dickerson is dead, too. It’s a bad season for decent, kindly men.’

  ‘You knew Dickerson?’ asked Lonsdale, surprised.

  ‘Only by reputation.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you ever met the Archbishop of Canterbury, did you? Archibald Tait?’

  Jack fixed him with a beady eye. ‘I don’t move in those circles, Alec. That said, old Gillespie met him at the Athenaeum last year, and found him a most contrary individual. Tait had a good, ethical mind but was rather confrontational.’

  ‘Do you know if Tait, Bowyer, Haldane and Dickerson were acquainted?’ Lonsdale asked, suddenly assailed by the sense that the deaths of four prominent men could not be a coincidence – and he knew for a fact that Dickerson, Tait and Haldane had been murdered. He decided to find out how Bowyer had died, as a matter of urgency.