Watchers of the Dead

by Simon Beaufort

  Hulda frowned. ‘But Milner does all the in-house editing duties and background research for our major stories. He rarely leaves the office and—’

  ‘Quite,’ interrupted Morley. ‘Lonsdale won’t have time to venture out after killers. Nor will you, because his new assignment means we’ll be one reporter short.’

  ‘But—’ objected Hulda.

  ‘This is not a debate, Miss Friederichs,’ said Morley, giving her what his reporters referred to as his ‘mean-eyed glare’, which was reserved for those who annoyed him. ‘You will do as I ask.’

  Hulda inclined her head, and she and Lonsdale left.

  Rather than speak to Stead immediately, Lonsdale took Hulda’s arm and directed her back to the reporters’ room, aiming to give her a few moments to master her temper. She had clearly annoyed Morley by questioning his orders, and Lonsdale did not want her to antagonize Stead as well.

  ‘How stupid!’ she fumed. ‘We have to rush because Morley is obsessed with the Irish murders. Cook is perfectly capable of relaying what happens there, and it’s quite unnecessary to send Milner to babysit.’

  ‘He’s the editor,’ shrugged Lonsdale. ‘It’s his prerogative to make these decisions. So we’d better finish all our other work as quickly as possible, so we can concentrate on the murders. Yes?’

  Hulda scowled. ‘I suppose. Shall we go and see Stead then?’

  ‘He’s just gone out,’ said Milner, glancing out of the window. ‘To buy chestnuts for his chickens from the vendor on Villiers Street. Apparently the birds have developed a taste for those specifically, and he doesn’t like to disappoint them by going anywhere else.’

  While they waited for the assistant editor to return, Lonsdale dashed off his museum report, and Hulda wrote a review of Iolanthe. As the deadlines for the early edition were almost upon them, it was a frantic race against time.

  Just as Lonsdale finished, and handed the completed piece to the waiting compositor’s boy, Morley came to demand an article about Buckfast Abbey in Devon.

  This had been suppressed during the Dissolution of the Monasteries under Henry VIII but, in October that year, six French Benedictine monks had arrived to start operations there again. Morley had just heard that their new church was to be dedicated the following day and wanted mention of it in the early edition. To him, allowing Catholic institutions to flourish again was a symbol of tolerance and reconciliation. To others, it was a dangerous precedent that threatened the Church of England.

  While Hulda and Milner scrabbled through their reference books for facts, Lonsdale wrote. He shared Morley’s opinion, and expressed the hope that the monks would have a peaceful existence in the rolling West Country hills. His hand burned from the speed at which the words flowed on to the paper, after which the compositor’s boy snatched it away while the ink was still wet.

  ‘There go the presses,’ said Hulda, as a familiar rumble sounded in the basement. ‘Let’s hope you were in time, or Mr Morley is going to be vexed.’

  She looked as though she thought that would serve him right for imposing unreasonable strictures on them over the murders.

  While Morley’s domain was neat and formal, Stead’s was colourful and chaotic. There was a stuffed bear’s head mounted on one wall. Its mouth was open, and one of the assistant editor’s favourite pastimes was lobbing things into it. That day it was carrots, which he hurled like small javelins. Newspapers were scattered all over the floor, books lay everywhere, and there was a wheelbarrow in the middle of the room. It had been there a week, and no one had yet learned why. When Hulda and Lonsdale entered, Stead was lying in it, a bag of carrots in his lap.

  ‘There you are,’ he remarked coolly, legs hanging over one end and his arms over the sides. He looked irritable, although his semi-prone position was hardly one to inspire fear or respect. ‘What kept you?’

  ‘Buckfast Abbey, Iolanthe and the Natural History Museum,’ replied Hulda. She liked Stead, and the feeling was mutual. ‘But now we’re ready for some real journalism.’

  ‘The poor professor, I suppose,’ said Stead. ‘I’ll pray for his soul, but I’m furious about his dealings with the cannibals. You know my feelings on the matter.’

  Lonsdale and Hulda did, although that did not prevent Stead from repeating them.

  ‘The exploitation of one human being by another is the greatest evil we face today,’ he preached. ‘We must do everything we can to stop it, whether it be northern mill workers abused by greedy industrialists, women turned to prostitution by unscrupulous men, or cannibals being paraded like animals.’

  All the while he tossed carrots at the bear. When his bag was empty, he screwed it into a ball and threw that instead. It hit the nose and bounced off in such a way that it flew back at him. He flapped it away furiously, as though the stuffed animal had contrived to do it on purpose.

  When the rant was over, Hulda told him what Morley had said about the four dead men. Stead listened intently and grimaced. ‘These connections sound rather contrived to me, but you’d better do as Mr Morley asks,’ he said. ‘However, I want you to look for the cannibals at the same time. They’re accused of killing one of your victims, thanks to Voules and The Echo, so you can tell him it’s part of the same case.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ said Lonsdale. ‘But—’

  ‘Besides, the police know their business and Peters is a good detective. He can find the killer without your help.’

  ‘Not Tait’s – he was told to forget about that,’ said Hulda.

  Stead sighed. ‘Then see what you can do, although it can’t be at the expense of the Kumu. Finding them must be your first priority, hopefully before they fall prey to some ignorant mob.’

  ‘So you don’t believe they killed Dickerson?’ asked Lonsdale.

  Stead spread his hands. ‘Why would they? Your friend Roth says he treated them with kindness and respect – although he should’ve found them better lodgings than the museum basement – so they’ve no reason to kill him. I imagine they fled because he was struck down – they ran, to avoid being blamed or suffering the same fate.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ hedged Lonsdale.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Stead clapped his hands. ‘So off you go. Keep me informed.’

  Although it would make him late for Bradwell, Lonsdale decided to visit Anne first. Hulda offered to accompany him when she learned what he intended to do, but he did not think that would be a good idea, given what Jack had claimed at breakfast. He declined politely, settled her in the first hansom that happened past, then flagged down another.

  The Humbages lived on Gordon Square in Bloomsbury. Their house was a fine, five-storey affair with grey walls, yellow shutters and twin marble columns flanking the front door. Humbage had recently spent a fortune renovating it, although Lonsdale thought the ‘improvements’ showed that the retired brigadier had more money than taste.

  Lonsdale knocked on the door, and there was a moment when he thought Taylor, Humbage’s butler, would refuse to let him in – the man regarded him with such contempt that Lonsdale was on the verge of pushing past before he finally stepped aside.

  He entered the large, imposing hall, which was filled with so many paintings and sculptures that it verged on the vulgar. Rather like the Humbages themselves, thought Lonsdale. Other than Anne, of course. He could not imagine how such a sweet, intelligent lady could have been born into such a stuffy, narrow-minded family.

  Before Lonsdale could ask to see Anne, her grandmother, Lady Gertrude, opened the sitting-room door and beckoned him towards her. Lonsdale liked the elderly lady, who delighted in exposing her son-in-law for the pompous fool he was. In response, Humbage kept her on a very short leash, and had instructed his family and the servants never to let her out alone, lest she said the wrong thing to people he wanted to impress.

  ‘Look at this,’ she whispered mischievously, and ushered him into a room that was being prepared for Christmas.

  Lonsdale’s jaw dropped. Humbage had ordered it decor
ated like the photographs of the great hall in Buckingham Palace. There was a tree so large that Lonsdale wondered how it had been carried inside, and it was smothered in candles, sweets, and impossibly gaudy baubles that had been purchased at Whiteley’s on Westbourne Grove. There were five smaller trees dotted around the room, a giant wassail bowl that looked as if it could serve an army and still have drink to spare, and a spectacular Yule log sat in the fireplace.

  ‘Gervais is nothing if not a follower of royal fashion,’ chuckled Lady Gertrude. ‘He’s enormously proud of this, but I knew I could rely on you for an honest opinion. You think it’s grotesque and didn’t mind showing it.’

  ‘It’s horrible,’ said Lonsdale with feeling. ‘And he won’t even be here at Christmas – you’ll all be with us in Cleveland Square.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Lady Gertrude bitterly. ‘Gervais informs me that I’m too frail to go out in the cold. I’m to stay here alone.’

  ‘Then I’ll fetch you in a hackney carriage myself,’ determined Lonsdale, irked that Humbage should bully her so. ‘One with plenty of blankets.’

  ‘Brandy is better at driving the cold from elderly bones,’ said Lady Gertrude, and patted his cheek affectionately. ‘You can keep the blankets for Gervais – preferably to smother him with. Will you be having a decent whisky? Gervais hides his, you know.’

  ‘I’ll make sure you’re well supplied,’ promised Lonsdale.

  She grinned, then turned her attention back to the room.

  ‘I dislike all this Germanic nonsense,’ she said, regarding the tree with a belligerent eye. ‘I’d rather replicate the jubilant Christmases of my youth, but Gervais thinks that would make us look like pagans.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Lonsdale curiously. ‘What did you do? Human sacrifices? Dancing naked around an oak tree with the local druids?’

  She chortled. ‘Not human sacrifices, although there was dancing – and nakedness, on occasion. The clergy were much more fun in those days. I said as much to the Prince.’

  ‘Which Prince? Edward?’

  She regarded him scornfully. ‘That boy? No, I refer to Albert, the German himself. He was always keen to hear about English customs, and I’m sure he’d turn in his grave if he could see this room. And as for Christmas cards …’

  ‘You don’t approve of them?’

  ‘In moderation, but Gervais sends hundreds. Archbishop Tait was very much against cards. He considered them irreligious, even though many have Jesus on the front.’

  ‘You knew Tait?’

  She grinned wickedly. ‘I met him when he was a prim young curate in Marsh Baldon. He was a dour youth, and he grew into a dour adult, although you must remember that he lost five of his eight daughters in a little more than a month, then later his wife and only son. But he was a good man at heart. Honourable and steadfast.’

  ‘I heard he didn’t die a natural death.’ Lonsdale dared not be too specific.

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me – he was a man of strong, loud and inflexible opinions. But I admire that in a man. I can’t abide the weak ones, who change their minds at the drop of a hat. Gervais is such a man, especially now he has friends at the Palace. He’s so frantic to impress them that he’ll say and do anything they ask, no matter how asinine.’

  At that point, the door opened and Humbage himself walked in. He looked immaculate, and his soldierly bearing made him appear tall and strong. He looked down his nose at Lonsdale, his expression one of utter disdain.

  ‘Were we expecting you?’

  ‘I was,’ put in Gertrude, before Lonsdale could invent an excuse for coming unannounced so early in the day. ‘He brought me some German marzipan, because he knows I’ve loved it ever since the Prince gave me a piece.’

  ‘That old story!’ sneered Humbage. ‘I doubt it’s even true.’

  ‘When were you last at the Palace, Gervais?’ asked the old lady acidly. ‘Or are you obliged to grovel to your new courtier friends elsewhere? Who are they again? Lord Curly-Tail and Fleetwood-Lighthouse?’

  ‘Lord Carlingford and Sir Algernon Fleetwood-Pelham,’ corrected Humbage irritably.

  ‘Fleetwood-Lighthouse is a terrible blabbermouth,’ Lady Gertrude went on. ‘He leaked the tale about Lady Morningside’s illegitimate child.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have been appointed a Groom-in-Waiting if that were true,’ countered Humbage sharply. ‘Courtiers need to be discreet.’

  Lady Gertrude laughed. ‘And soldiers need to be brave, politicians clever and bankers honest, but we have cowards, liars and numbskulls aplenty. Did I ever tell you that I knew Fleetwood-Lighthouse’s mother? An interesting lady – she could juggle and catch sardines in her teeth from a distance of thirty yards.’

  ‘Did you know Archbishop Tait?’ Lonsdale asked of Humbage, more to change the subject before the man had an apoplectic fit than for information. ‘Or Sir George Bowyer?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Humbage shortly. ‘But I decline to discuss them in present company. I wish you good day, and hope you’ll send your calling card to warn us of your arrival the next time you visit.’

  ‘What an ass,’ muttered Lady Gertrude as her son-in-law stalked out. ‘Calling card indeed! Who does he think he is? He spends so much time fawning over these courtiers – who aren’t friends, but men who throw him the occasional nod – that I barely know him. He’s grown bloated with ambition.’

  Voices in the hallway heralded the arrival of other members of the Humbage household, and Anne walked in, followed by Emelia. To Lonsdale’s alarm, they were holding hands, which meant that Emelia aimed to give her sister moral support against her errant fiancé.

  ‘It was Hulda,’ he began firmly. ‘She scrubs up very nicely when she chooses, and we went to the theatre because we were looking for three Kumu. It was work, not pleasure. After the performance, we went backstage and interviewed Alice Barnett.’

  ‘I might’ve known you’d have an excuse,’ said Emelia sourly. ‘However, it doesn’t detract from the point that you promised to take Anne to that opera, and you elected to go with someone else.’

  ‘It wasn’t Hulda anyway,’ said Anne tearfully. ‘We know her.’

  ‘It was,’ insisted Lonsdale. ‘And I think you should give me the benefit of the doubt. You know I’m not in the habit of lying to you.’

  ‘If he says it was Hulda, it was Hulda,’ interposed Lady Gertrude firmly. ‘She has good bones, and I imagine she’d wear an evening dress with great panache. It’s a pity you didn’t take me to see Iolanthe, because I’d have recognized her, and you could’ve avoided all this silly weeping and wailing.’

  ‘Why didn’t they take you?’ asked Lonsdale.

  ‘Because Gervais thought Lord Curly-Tail might be there, and he didn’t want me to meet him,’ replied Lady Gertrude promptly. ‘He’s ashamed of me, even though I have more breeding in my little finger than all his ancestors put together.’

  ‘Carlingford,’ corrected Emelia. ‘Lord Carlingford. Papa is his friend.’

  ‘Pah!’ spat Lady Gertrude. ‘Gervais is like a dog on heat around him, and Curly-Tail will soon tire of it. Gervais thinks his sycophancy will win him a position at court, but it won’t. He’d do better sucking up to me, because I’m the one who can put words in the right ears.’

  ‘But you haven’t, have you,’ said Emelia archly, ‘although you’ve had years to prove your so-called royal connections.’

  ‘Em!’ cried Anne, shocked. ‘Grandmama isn’t obliged to—’

  ‘Because I chose not to inflict Gervais on people I like,’ interrupted Lady Gertrude haughtily. ‘And I’m glad of it, given that he kept me from seeing Iolanthe.’

  ‘You were tired,’ said Emelia, although Anne looked acutely uncomfortable, and Lonsdale was inclined to believe the old lady. ‘You slept most of the afternoon.’

  ‘Yes, so I wouldn’t doze off during the performance,’ snapped Lady Gertrude with asperity. ‘I was looking forward to it. But, as it turns out, I had a very enjoyable evening with Jack inst
ead. Indeed, I warrant I had a lot more fun than you did. Now, if you’ll excuse me, all this foliage is making me want to sneeze.’

  ‘I hope you haven’t changed your mind about tomorrow,’ said Lonsdale to Anne, wishing Emelia was not there. ‘The Christmas cracker exhibition?’

  Anne smiled, so he knew she had decided to take his side over her sister’s. ‘No, of course not. I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lonsdale briskly. ‘So am I.’

  He bowed and took his leave before any more could be said, filled with a sense of exasperation and annoyance. Was this what married life would be like? A series of quarrels and misunderstandings, all brought about by Emelia’s malice and Humbage’s foolish pomposity?

  FOUR

  It was difficult to remain morose for long when, all around, London was merrily preparing for Christmas. Lonsdale enjoyed the journey from Bloomsbury to Westminster, even though the volume of traffic made it torturous and long, because he liked to see the drab tones of winter enlivened by seasonal splashes of colour. All along Tottenham Court and Charing Cross roads were bright window displays, some very imaginative, while the scent of roasted chestnuts was on every corner. Then he saw Voules. He waited for The Echo man to catch up, thinking it was as good a time as any to question him.

  ‘You went to Broadmoor,’ he said without preamble. ‘Why?’

  ‘I never did!’ declared Voules.

  ‘Your name was in the visitors’ book.’

  ‘You think I’m the only Voules in the country? It’s a very important name, and there are dozens of us. So, as it wasn’t me, it must’ve been one of the others.’

  Lonsdale shuddered at the notion of dozens of Vouleses scurrying around. He was about to ask more, but The Echo man strutted away, although only to duck into a shop in readiness for following Lonsdale again. Determined to lose him, Lonsdale jumped on and off horse trams and the new garden-seat omnibuses, zigzagged through alleys, and doubled back on himself. Voules was good, so it was with great satisfaction that Lonsdale finally threw him off his trail. He refused to acknowledge that it made no real difference, because Voules would probably guess where he was going anyway and would just make his own way there.