Watchers of the Dead

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Thank God indeed,’ murmured Lonsdale, following Fox back inside the building to see if the invader had left anything else behind.

  The blanket covering Dickerson lay on the floor, but Fox declared nothing else was out of place. It seemed that Ripper had been in time to prevent a conflagration that would have destroyed not only what remained of the professor, but likely the entire building as well, including Bradwell’s notes.

  Lonsdale left in a thoughtful frame of mind. If he needed more evidence that someone wanted to keep the truth hidden, this was it. Perhaps the killer knew Commissioner Henderson was unlikely to pass off a fourth murder as natural, so had elected to take matters into his own hands. Regardless, it made Lonsdale all the more determined to find out what was going on.

  He had only taken a few steps along Horseferry Road when he happened to glance behind him. He glimpsed a familiar figure, which ducked into a doorway when it saw him turn. It was Voules, who had indeed guessed he would visit the mortuary, and had staked it out after he had been given the slip. Lonsdale brightened: perhaps being stalked would have its advantages. He turned down Holland Street, pressed himself against the wall, then calmly reached out to grab Voules by the collar as The Echo man hurried past. Voules yelped his alarm.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ he demanded, pulling away and brushing himself down. ‘You frightened the life out of me – I thought I was about to be robbed. This is a shady area, you know, haunted by unsavoury characters.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Lonsdale regarding him pointedly. ‘Were you behind me when I came out of the mortuary?’

  ‘Behind you?’ echoed Voules, licking his lips nervously. ‘I just happened to be passing when—’

  ‘Enough!’ snapped Lonsdale. ‘We both know you’ve been glued to my side ever since I won the job over you. However, we might be able to help each other. So, were you outside the mortuary when I came out?’

  Voules scowled. ‘No – I got so cold loitering about that I went to a pub for a drink. I’ve only just come out.’

  ‘So you didn’t see me chase anyone?’

  ‘No, why? Who was it?’

  ‘Did you see anyone go in or come out of the mortuary, other than Bradwell and Fox?’ pressed Lonsdale.

  ‘Yes, I saw two police officers arrive. Then later there was a man in a bowler hat with a rolled-up Echo under his arm.’ Voules preened. ‘Today’s edition, with my piece about the cannibals. Tomorrow’s will reveal that they ate most of Dickerson. They—’

  ‘What else can you tell me about Bowler Hat?’ interrupted Lonsdale, not about to waste his time debating press ethics with the likes of Voules.

  Unfortunately, Voules was not an observant man, so Lonsdale was not surprised when he shook his head. ‘I think he had a moustache, but I can’t be sure. Why? Is it important?’

  Lonsdale nodded. ‘And it’s a pity you weren’t more vigilant, because identifying him might have answered a lot of questions.’

  Determined that Voules would not follow him again that day, Lonsdale hailed a hansom and jumped in, promising to pay the driver double if he hurried. He glanced through the back window as they rattled away, smiling when he saw Voules standing with his fists clenched in impotent fury. The hansom was moving too fast for him to follow on foot, and there was no sign of another. Lonsdale sat back and called the Natural History Museum’s address to the driver.

  It was a typical winter evening, with fog swirling up from the river, and an icy nip in the air. It trapped the smoke belching from thousands of chimneys, stinging eyes, staining clothes, and so thick that Lonsdale could feel particles of it cracking between his teeth. He was glad when they left the dinginess of the mortuary area behind and returned to the cheer of the shops along Cromwell Road.

  Once at the museum, he was told that Roth had begged off work that day, and was at home, recovering from the shock of his supervisor’s death. Lonsdale started to leave, only to meet Burnside, who was walking in with a camera over his shoulder. The photographer looked cold, tired and miserable.

  ‘You aim to start work inside now?’ asked Lonsdale, sure there would not be enough light.

  ‘I’ve been in Hyde Park all day, taking pictures of visitors,’ said Burnside, then, evidently feeling this was a demeaning activity for a man with designs on a royal appointment, added rather defiantly, ‘Gladstone himself stopped to talk to me.’

  Lonsdale sincerely doubted the Prime Minister would have deigned to exchange greetings with a lowly street trader but nodded politely. ‘The rain didn’t put people off?’

  Burnside sighed unhappily. ‘Let’s just say that today wasn’t one of the busiest ones. So I decided to take shots of the exhibits here instead. It’s not so crowded in the evenings.’

  He forced a smile, and Lonsdale was reminded of when he himself was struggling to make a living, not so long ago. On impulse, he invited him to The Brompton, which was not far, and served excellent à la carte chops. Lonsdale had a cup of tea and a light plum cake, while Burnside plunged into pork, peas, boiled potatoes and bread.

  Once his hunger was sated, Burnside turned to his favourite subject – how the Queen had failed to show proper gratitude for him saving her life. It transpired that he was particularly angry at Fleetwood-Pelham, who had had the unenviable task of informing Burnside that he would not be rewarded with a contract to be the Royal Photographer, nor would the Queen supply his raw materials. Eventually, Lonsdale managed to turn the conversation to Christmas, hoping it would be less acerbic.

  ‘I’m going to buy my father a pipe,’ Burnside said, wiping the gravy from his plate with the last of his bread. ‘From the Thurloe Square market. What are you getting for your fiancée?’

  ‘Anne?’ asked Lonsdale, as though there might be another. He shrugged. ‘I haven’t given it much thought.’

  Burnside raised his eyebrows. ‘Then you’d better start! Your life won’t be worth living unless you produce the right present. Believe me, I know – my fiancée went off and married someone else when I came up short one Christmas.’

  Lonsdale was about to remark that the engagement could not have been a very loving one if his intended allowed something like that to change her mind, but then an image of Emelia came into his mind. She would certainly make a fuss if Jack failed in the gift department and would encourage Anne to do the same. Lonsdale saw he had better give the matter some serious consideration before it was too late.

  ‘Come with me,’ said Burnside, reading the consternation on his face. ‘There’ll be something suitable in the market, and you look as if you need guidance.’

  Supposing Roth could wait, Lonsdale allowed himself to be led to Thurloe Square, a small garden surrounded by elegant houses. A Christmas market had set up there, with tiny wooden stalls selling all manner of exotic goods, from silks and spices to perfumes and gloves. It looked pretty with its swinging lanterns and coloured lights. They bought the pipe for Burnside’s father, after which Lonsdale purchased a handsome set of pens for Hulda, wishing Anne was as easy to please.

  ‘Is someone following you?’ asked Burnside suddenly, stopping to peer back along the shops they had just walked past. ‘I keep seeing the same man …’

  ‘Voules!’ exclaimed Lonsdale in irritation. ‘How did he find me here?’

  ‘It’s not Voules,’ said Burnside. ‘It’s a small, thin man with a moustache and a bowler hat.’ He gripped Lonsdale’s arm hard. ‘You should be careful about poking your nose into that murder in the museum. It might be dangerous.’

  ‘You mean because it may have been committed by cannibals?’ asked Lonsdale, assuming Burnside had been reading The Echo. He peered into the gloom but could see no one who might be trailing him. ‘I don’t think they pose much of a—’

  ‘Not them,’ interrupted Burnside. ‘Why would they attack the man who had looked after them all those weeks? I heard the museum staff whispering while I was photographing insects yesterday – they think someone else is responsible, because the cannibals seemed
too nice for murder.’

  ‘When we find them, we can ask,’ said Lonsdale, and changed the subject, because he did not want to talk to Burnside about the investigation, sure Peters would never approve. ‘Look at this silk waistcoat. My brother would like that.’

  ‘What about Anne?’ asked Burnside. ‘She’s why you’re here, remember?’

  But Lonsdale was uncertain about everything the photographer suggested, although he paused at a collection of sabres.

  ‘Perhaps I should get one of these for Emelia. She’d enjoy disembowelling people with it.’

  ‘From what you’ve told me, she won’t need a sword for that,’ quipped Burnside. ‘She can use her teeth.’

  Lonsdale took considerable care as he left Burnside and began to walk to Roth’s lodgings, ducking into doorways and doubling back on himself. But he saw nothing suspicious and could only assume that Burnside had been mistaken about someone following him.

  The clocks were chiming seven by the time he reached Roth’s small but pleasant rooms on Shawfield Street. He had been there several times before, but that day he noticed a peculiar smell on the landing outside, which intensified as Roth opened the door. Roth was even paler than usual and looked as though he had been crying.

  ‘Alec,’ he said, manfully trying to summon a smile. ‘It’s good of you to come.’

  Lonsdale followed him inside, and almost tripped over a box that had been inconveniently placed. He put out a hand to steady himself, but in so doing knocked over a pile of wooden spears that had been leaning against the wall. These slid sideways and clattered into a shield that was covered in antelope hide. He was about to ask where they had all come from – they had not been there the last time he had visited, nor had the three large crates in the middle of the room – when he saw Roth was not alone.

  ‘Mr Lonsdale,’ said Fleetwood-Pelham, standing politely as the reporter entered the sitting room. Again, Lonsdale was struck by the odd shape of the man’s head – the great dome above, and the small chin below the huge handlebar moustache. ‘I had no idea when we spoke yesterday that you’re with The Pall Mall Gazette. I have the honour of counting your editor, John Morley, among my closest friends.’

  ‘The professor admired Mr Morley, too,’ said Roth miserably. ‘I still can’t believe he … If only I’d stayed to make sure the train left with him on it! Then he might still be alive.’

  ‘You can’t know that,’ said Fleetwood-Pelham kindly. ‘And blaming yourself will accomplish nothing. The best thing is you can do what he would want: return to the museum and continue the work he loved.’

  ‘Yes,’ sniffed Roth. ‘He would want that. It’s just that it won’t be the same without him, and I’m not sure I can do it.’

  ‘You’ll feel differently in a few days,’ Fleetwood-Pelham assured him gently. ‘Now, I’ve told you how to contact me at St James’s Palace, should you need anything, so I’ll leave you in the capable hands of your friend.’

  He took his leave, donning an unusually large hat to accommodate his princely dome. Roth saw him out, then slumped down on a chair before explaining why the courtier had visited.

  ‘He knew the professor and wanted to say how sorry he is,’ Roth grimaced. ‘He’s rather a gossip, actually, so I suspect his real mission was to see what he could find out.’

  ‘I hardly think a courtier would go to that sort of length for a bit of tittle-tattle.’

  Roth’s expression suggested he thought otherwise. ‘He told me the Queen is worried about what impact the murder might have on the museum – that people won’t come if they think folk are dispatched down in its cellars. I hope her concerns are groundless. The professor would have hated the thought of his death harming the museum.’

  ‘The public have short memories,’ said Lonsdale. ‘It won’t matter in a week or two.’

  ‘Fleetwood-Pelham also quizzed me about the Kumu,’ Roth went on, ‘no doubt thinking cannibals will make for more interesting chatter for Her Majesty than the usual gamut of unwanted pregnancies and scandalous affairs.’

  ‘Depends who’s having the affairs and pregnancies, I imagine,’ muttered Lonsdale.

  ‘And yet South African subjects killing British citizens might cause a diplomatic furore,’ Roth went on, ignoring him. ‘So perhaps that was his real concern.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Lonsdale. ‘But the Kumu come from Central Africa, so I wouldn’t think so.’

  ‘I meant to say Central Africa.’ Roth rubbed his eyes tiredly before gesturing around him at the crates. ‘Most of this originates in West and Central Africa, and I’ve been immersed in it.’

  ‘It smells of something familiar, although I can’t place it. But where did you get it? It wasn’t here last week.’

  ‘A solicitor visited this morning, to tell me that I’ve inherited the professor’s whole ethnographic collection,’ said Roth, his eyes filling with tears. ‘Lord only knows where I’ll put it – he’d been collecting all his life, and this is just a fraction of what he had.’

  ‘He left it all to you?’ asked Lonsdale, astonished. ‘Nothing to the museum?’

  ‘I’m to catalogue it, then pass the most valuable items to the museum. The rest I can keep for myself.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like much of a legacy! The museum gets the cream, while you’re left with the milk.’

  ‘It belonged to him, which means I’ll cherish it,’ said Roth, a tear rolling down his cheek. ‘Of course, I’ll drown in pangas, shields, spears and beads. He also charged me to look after the Kumu, although that’ll be difficult when I don’t know where they are.’

  ‘You’ve no idea at all?’ fished Lonsdale.

  ‘I wish I did. They love our tradition of tea and cakes, so perhaps I’ll trawl some cafes tomorrow, to see if they’ve fetched up in one.’

  ‘I hope they haven’t,’ said Lonsdale. ‘All London is looking for three dangerous Africans, and if they waltz into the Ritz demanding scones, they’ll likely be lynched.’

  ‘The Kumu did not kill the professor,’ snapped Roth. ‘How many more times must I say it? They liked each other – he was like a father to them, as he was to me. They would never have hurt him.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Lonsdale soothingly. ‘Although it’s a pity they vanished the same day that he was last seen alive. It looks suspicious, to say the least.’

  ‘It does,’ acknowledged Roth. ‘But that doesn’t mean they’re guilty.’

  Lonsdale was thoughtful. ‘Then maybe they abandoned the museum before he died. Or they went to Paddington Station to snatch a word with him before the train left for Devon, which would explain why he got off. Perhaps a member of his family might know more.’

  ‘He had no family,’ said Roth, ‘which is why going to Devon was such a chore for him. The ancestral home offered no friendship, and was little more than a storage facility. But his London lodgings are on Selwood Terrace, only a fifteen-minute walk from here. I tried to make myself go today, to see if he’d left any clues about what happened, but I couldn’t go in.’ He brightened. ‘Will you do it? I can give you the key.’

  ‘It would be better if we went together.’

  Roth shook his head. ‘I can’t. Please, Alec – go tomorrow. We must prove the Kumu innocent, because I’ll never forgive myself if they’re hanged for a crime they didn’t commit. Nor will you.’

  ‘Very well,’ agreed Lonsdale, although he was not sure how he would keep his promise when he had arranged to take Anne to the Christmas cracker exhibition with Jack and Emelia. He wondered if they might help him search Dickerson’s house, but dismissed that notion at once. Anne would be game, but Emelia would object and would certainly report it to her stuffy parents. ‘However, you should be aware that Dickerson was killed by a panga. I told the police it wasn’t a Kumu-style weapon, but I’m not sure they believed me.’

  He took pen and paper and sketched from memory the one Bradwell had drawn.

  ‘The Kumu would never use anything like that,’ declared
Roth confidently. ‘They prefer ones with longer, thinner blades.’

  Lonsdale stood to leave, then paused. ‘Just one more question: why did you and Dickerson visit the Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum?’

  ‘To see the chaplain, Thomas Ashe, who had some Ashanti artefacts that he wanted to donate. Ashe didn’t have time to come to London, so we went to Broadmoor, as the professor hoped he’d have something we could use in the Empire and Africa exhibition.’ Roth shuddered. ‘He didn’t, and I still have nightmares about that place.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘Is it so terrible?’

  ‘It stank of cabbage, dirty feet and despair,’ said Roth. ‘And there was a nasty, reverberating echo every time a door was slammed shut. It was horrible.’

  It was nearing nine o’clock when Lonsdale finally arrived home, tired, cold and grubby from the soot-impregnated fog. He left his hat and coat in the hall, then heard voices emanating from the drawing room. For a moment, he thought it was Emelia and Jack, but then recognized Hulda’s distinctive tones. Puzzled as to why she should be visiting at such an hour, he pushed open the door and went inside.

  ‘There you are at last,’ said Hulda, speaking from his favourite hearthside chair, where she was settled very comfortably with a glass of Jack’s best brandy – brandy that had been forbidden to Lonsdale on the grounds that he would not appreciate it. ‘Where have you been?’

  Lonsdale told her, including the news that someone had been so determined to muddy the waters around Dickerson’s murder that he had tried to burn down the mortuary.

  ‘So you were within grabbing distance of the killer, but you let him go?’ she asked incredulously.

  ‘If he was within grabbing distance, he’d be behind bars,’ retorted Lonsdale tartly, sitting on the chaise longue, which was not nearly as comfortable as his chair. ‘But he had too great a lead. Why are you here?’

  Hulda waved a sheaf of papers. ‘Because Bradwell asked his medical friends for copies of their reports on Haldane, Tait and Bowyer, and he sent a set to me. Obviously, these are the notes they made before the three deaths were designated “natural” by the police.’