Watchers of the Dead

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Which club?’ demanded Hulda.

  ‘The Garraway,’ replied Roth. ‘It’s on Exchange Alley. Do you know it?’

  Lonsdale frowned as he recalled what Morley had told him about that particular establishment. ‘Tait, Haldane, Bowyer and Dickerson were all members of the Garraway.’

  ‘Dickerson certainly was,’ nodded Roth. ‘So are two hundred others, including Ingram. It’s how he and the professor met. They put me up for membership – I was formally admitted a few weeks ago. It was good of them, because it’s a nice club.’

  ‘Are the fees not too expensive?’ asked Hulda, looking pointedly at the cramped lodgings.

  ‘They have “commoners” – men who want to contribute to the life of the place, but who can’t afford to join. The fees are waived in return for certain basic services, like acting as wine steward or serving food. Thus the money that would’ve been paid to servants goes on our membership instead.’

  Hulda looked deeply suspicious of such a benevolent arrangement. ‘So did you meet Tait, Bowyer and Haldane at this progressive establishment?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ replied Roth. ‘But I wouldn’t have recognized any of them, so perhaps they were there when I was, but perhaps they weren’t. I can’t say, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And the cannibals?’ asked Hulda, frustration turning her caustic. ‘Did the professor offer to make them “commoners”, too?’

  Roth smiled. ‘I hardly think the Khoikhoi would appreciate that! They wouldn’t understand or enjoy the ethos of a club, no matter how pleasant.’

  ‘Khoikhoi?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘You mean Kumu.’

  Roth blew out his cheeks in a sigh, and pointed to the table, with its books and jewellery. ‘Forgive me. I’ve been working on the professor’s Khoikhoi collection today – he loved all African culture, but Southern Africans were his real speciality – so they’re in my mind. A slip of the tongue from a weary man in indifferent health.’

  ‘But not too weary to start going through Dickerson’s belongings,’ said Hulda pointedly, ‘especially the gold ones.’

  ‘He asked me to do the gold ones first,’ said Roth crossly. ‘In his will.’

  ‘Right,’ said Hulda, and moved to another subject. ‘Have you heard of a group called the Watchers?’

  Roth blinked his bemusement. ‘Not offhand.’

  ‘Professor Dickerson was a member of it.’

  ‘Was he?’ asked Roth, looking bewildered. ‘He never mentioned it to me, but we did not have the kind of relationship that entailed sharing—’

  ‘What about Grim Death?’ interrupted Hulda briskly.

  Roth’s mystification intensified. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I refer to a person calling himself that,’ said Hulda. ‘A person who corresponded with the professor, and who signed several letters with that name.’

  Roth spoke sharply, to prevent her from cutting off his explanation a second time. ‘I was his assistant, Miss Friederichs. Our relationship, while affectionate, was professional. We rarely discussed our private lives, so I’ve no idea if he knew a “Grim Death” or was a member of this Watchers Club.’

  ‘Then how can we find out?’ persisted Hulda. ‘By going to Devon? He had a house there, did he not? That’s where he was going when you saw him off at Paddington – to collect materials for the Empire and Africa exhibition.’

  ‘You’d be wasting your time if you did,’ said Roth. ‘He spent all his time here. He had no family in Devon, and his only friends, as far as I know, were at the Garraway or the museum. And I’ve met no one in either of those called Grim Death.’

  Hulda regarded him with a stern eye. ‘Your mentor and employer – a man you profess to love and admire – was brutally murdered, Mr Roth. Are you sure you know nothing that will allow his killer to be brought to justice?’

  ‘If I did, Miss Friederichs,’ retorted Roth curtly, ‘I’d have told the police.’

  Outside in the street, Lonsdale and Hulda began to argue again. He was sure Roth was far too gentle – and physically feeble – to launch the kind of frenzied attack that had deprived Dickerson of his life, while she thought Roth had lied throughout the entire interrogation, and not a word he uttered should be believed.

  ‘He has a motive,’ she said, as they left the quiet, residential streets and aimed for the more brightly lit Fulham Road. ‘He benefited hugely from Dickerson’s will. No one will monitor what he does with the professor’s collections, so he can give the museum the rubbish and keep the best for himself.’

  ‘Dickerson trusted him to be honest,’ argued Lonsdale. ‘Besides, it’s clear to me that Roth had no idea about the professor’s bequest. As far as he was concerned, Dickerson’s death meant the loss of his livelihood and the work he loved.’

  ‘Of course he knew,’ scoffed Hulda. ‘They would’ve discussed it, so Dickerson could tell him what he wanted done. The moment Roth found out that Dickerson dead was worth more than Dickerson alive, he dispatched him.’

  ‘Very well, let’s assume that Roth killed Dickerson for money,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Tell me why he murdered the other three? Bradwell believes all four victims were claimed by the same hand, so why did Roth attack them? He just told us that he wouldn’t have recognized any of them.’

  ‘How do you know he was telling the truth? Besides, just because we don’t know his motive doesn’t mean he’s innocent.’

  Lonsdale shook his head in exasperation. ‘You’re wrong, Friederichs. He’s lost more than he gained by Dickerson’s death – regular and fulfilling employment, an introduction to a club, free trips to tea rooms, operas and cricket matches …’

  ‘Cricket is dull and incomprehensible; English cakes are stodgy and tasteless, and as for light opera …’ Hulda sniffed. ‘Well, I might kill to escape being dragged to all that nonsense. Perhaps that’s why the Kumu vanished – to escape Dickerson’s awful outings.’

  ‘He took them because they wanted to go,’ argued Lonsdale, although he realized he only had Roth’s word about that.

  ‘Is that Voules behind us?’ asked Hulda, as she glanced behind in readiness for crossing the road. ‘No, it’s too small. Lord! It looks uncannily like Maclean!’

  Lonsdale peered into the misty darkness and saw the familiar short, bowler-hatted figure. ‘Or the person who tried to set the mortuary on fire. Stay here.’

  He broke into a run, but so did the man. Then the fog thickened suddenly. Lonsdale skidded to a halt and listened intently, hoping for footsteps to reveal where his quarry might have gone, but there was nothing, and he was forced to concede defeat and return to Hulda.

  ‘I could have told you he was too far away to catch,’ she scoffed. ‘We should’ve separated – one to act as a decoy, and the other to sneak up and grab him from behind. I’d have suggested it if you hadn’t hared off like a rabbit.’

  ‘It’s nine o’clock,’ Lonsdale said, as a nearby church clock began to chime the hour. ‘Not too late to go to the Garraway Club and see what its surviving members have to tell us about the deaths of four of their own.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ averred Hulda, and risked life and limb by stepping into the road to hail a hansom. She ignored the driver’s angry tirade as he was obliged to swerve.

  ‘You won’t be allowed in,’ warned Lonsdale. ‘Clubs are for men.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ determined Hulda, and climbed in the carriage. ‘So, to recap. Four members of the Garraway have been murdered, and we need to ask what its other members can tell us about it, especially Ingram, who accompanied Dickerson on some of his outings …’

  ‘We also need to find out if any member is named – or, more likely, nicknamed – Grim Death, and see if we can learn more about these worrisome Watchers and their nasty sacrifices. And while we’re there, we should see if anyone will tell us what “unspeakable happening” is being planned for Christmas Eve.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of these Watchers at all, Lonsdale,’ said Hulda unhappily. ‘Events t
o change the world; minds, bodies and souls sacrificed to some Great Lord; drinking sacred blood and sacrifices; wanting to show everyone what they’re capable of …’

  Lonsdale agreed. ‘I just wish we had longer than a week to prevent them from doing something terrible.’

  Gentlemen’s clubs were members-only establishments that had become popular in the early decades of the century. They were places where men could relax away from the stresses of work and home, and usually boasted a dining hall and rooms where its members could play billiards or cards, smoke, chat, read or doze off. Most were discreet on the outside, with a porter to exclude gatecrashers. Lonsdale’s own club was the Oxford and Cambridge on Pall Mall, a handsome building with palatial facilities within.

  There were dozens of them in the city for men in the upper and middle classes. Some catered to specific professions or religious denominations, others revolved around sport. Others still were established for men with specific political leanings – the Garraway was for Liberals and those interested in social welfare.

  It was located on Exchange Alley, a curiously dog-legged lane in the City, its layout a relic from an age when buildings and thoroughfares had been smaller. The club occupied a fine, marble-faced edifice, identifiable because lights burned inside it – all the others were business premises, and so closed on Sunday evenings. Lonsdale and Hulda stepped into a handsomely appointed vestibule, where a porter immediately asked them to leave. Hulda argued, but in vain, and Lonsdale was about to suggest doing as they were told when help came from an unexpected source.

  ‘Lonsdale!’ exclaimed Burnside. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What are you?’ countered Lonsdale, surprised to see the photographer there.

  ‘I’m a member,’ explained Burnside. ‘Or a commoner, to be precise. Obviously, I can’t afford the fees for such a place, but they have a scheme whereby talented men are admitted in exchange for certain duties. I’m about to take on the role of night porter, relieving Bird here.’

  Bird had already donned his hat and cloak and was halfway out the door, more than happy to leave awkward visitors for someone else to sort out. He nodded a farewell to Burnside and was gone.

  ‘So, what do you want, Lonsdale?’ asked Burnside. ‘You know you can’t come in – especially with a lady. They’re not allowed.’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Hulda fiercely. ‘Do you think I might discuss petticoats and embarrass you all?’

  ‘I don’t think you’d need to discuss petticoats to do that,’ muttered Burnside; he cleared his throat. ‘Club rules, ma’am. I didn’t make them – I only enforce them.’

  Lonsdale took her arm and pulled her towards the door. ‘Go home. They won’t let you in and arguing is futile. I’ll see what I can find out and tell you tomorrow.’

  He thought she would argue, but she gave a brisk nod and swept out. In the street, he saw her scowl at Bird before climbing into the hansom he had flagged down for himself.

  ‘So,’ said Burnside. ‘Tell me what I can do for you – consider it payment for the chops you bought me yesterday.’

  Lonsdale told him why he was there. Burnside had known the four dead members but was able to say nothing that Lonsdale did not already know – that they were good Christian men, but with flaws of character that made them human. Tait was tactless, Bowyer had an offensive tongue, Haldane was miserly, and Dickerson a bore.

  ‘Were these flaws serious enough to warrant them being murdered?’

  ‘Of course not!’ replied Burnside, startled. ‘And they weren’t murdered anyway – they died of natural causes. The police came and told us so today. Between you and me, I was surprised to hear it about Dickerson and Haldane, because I was to hand when their bodies were found, and the rumour then was that both had been hacked to pieces.’

  ‘Who told you that Dickerson’s death was natural? Superintendent Hayes?’

  ‘An Inspector Wells,’ replied Burnside. ‘But it was official – he had a letter signed by the Commissioner of Police. Incidentally, your editor, John Morley, was invited to join the Garraway, but he said he was too busy.’

  Lonsdale was glad Morley had refused, given what was happening there. He moved to another matter. ‘Have you ever met Grim Death?’

  ‘On a daily basis, when I take pictures of corpses for their grieving families. It’s not an enjoyable aspect of my work, but it has one advantage: the subjects stay still and don’t spoil the exposure.’

  ‘I mean a person called Grim Death. He may be a club member.’

  Burnside raised his eyebrows. ‘There’s certainly no one of that name on our books, although I suppose it could be a nickname. However, if it is, I can’t tell you for whom.’

  ‘Then have you heard of a group named the Watchers?’

  Burnside shook his head. ‘No, why? Who are they?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. I don’t suppose you know anything about an event for Christmas, do you? Something “unspeakable” and dangerous?’

  ‘Well, a few of us will be feeding the poor,’ said Burnside wryly. ‘That’s dangerous, because you get between them and their food at your peril.’

  Lonsdale saw he was wasting his time. As a commoner, Burnside was too lowly to know anything important. ‘I need to speak to William Ingram,’ he said. ‘Will you let me in for ten minutes?’

  Burnside glanced this way and that to make sure no one was within earshot. ‘Go on then, but if anyone asks, you slunk in through the back door.’

  No one took any notice of Lonsdale as he walked through a series of pleasantly appointed rooms looking for Ingram. As the Garraway boasted more than two hundred members, unfamiliar faces were nothing unusual.

  Eventually, he reached the smoking room, which was similar to the one in the Oxford and Cambridge Club – lots of armchairs filled with dozing ancients, a large fire and a sideboard with an array of beverages and glasses. Over the fire was the usual picture of the Queen, and to one side was a painting depicting an angel standing on top of St Paul’s Cathedral, its wings furled. Its face was hauntingly beautiful, and Lonsdale thought it was a much better work of art than the royal portrait, which made Her Majesty look fat.

  Before he could spot Ingram, he saw Humbage’s ‘friends’ Lord Carlingford and Fleetwood-Pelham. Carlingford looked through him blankly, but Fleetwood-Pelham recognized him and smiled a friendly greeting.

  ‘Lonsdale! Are you here as a guest of Gervais Humbage? He told me that you’re to marry one of his daughters.’

  Lonsdale just managed to stop himself from gaping his astonishment to learn that Humbage was a member of the Garraway. He made a noncommittal gesture, to ensure Humbage could never accuse him of using their relationship to sneak inside.

  ‘Humbage,’ mused Carlingford. ‘Which one’s he? The short, fat one with the eye-glass?’

  So much for Humbage’s claims to intimacy, thought Lonsdale.

  ‘Lady Gertrude’s son-in-law,’ said Fleetwood-Pelham, eyes agleam. ‘You must remember her, Carly. She once did an impression of Prince Albert’s older brother after he was diagnosed with the French pox.’

  Carlingford chuckled. ‘Then I do remember her! A wonderful lady – excellent sense of humour. Her son-in-law … no, can’t place him at all.’

  At that point, Fleetwood-Pelham noticed an elderly member struggling to carry his overly full glass of brandy, so went to help him. Lonsdale took the opportunity to ask Carlingford a few questions about the murdered men. Fortunately, the surly lord seemed willing to talk.

  ‘I knew Tait well,’ he said. ‘Bowyer, Haldane and the museum man less so. Their deaths are a tragedy, but grim death comes to us all in the end, and all we can do is pray for their eternal souls.’

  ‘Grim death?’ pounced Lonsdale.

  Carlingford regarded him shrewdly. ‘It’s what’ll happen to you if you invade other men’s clubs and pretend you were invited. I’ve spent a lifetime among politicians and courtiers – I know when a man is lying.’

&n
bsp; ‘I was admitted by a member,’ said Lonsdale truthfully, and changed the subject before Carlingford could ask whom. ‘How will the Garraway celebrate Christmas? With something special?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Carlingford, smiling at last. ‘We shall all go to church to celebrate the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ, then have a nice big dinner with crackers and plenty to drink.’

  Lonsdale could gauge nothing from his expression and, before he could ask more, Carlingford excused himself and went to exchange greetings with a short, fat man who boasted an enormous moustache and jet-black hair that shone with oil. Carlingford addressed him as Señor d’Atte, leading Lonsdale to surmise that he was Italian. He was about to resume his hunt for Ingram when Fleetwood-Pelham returned.

  ‘That’s Viscount Sherbrooke, the former Chancellor of the Exchequer,’ he said, nodding to where the old man he had helped was already asleep in a chair, the brandy glass empty at his side. He lowered his voice to a gossipy whisper. ‘Drinks too much, you know.’

  ‘This seems like a nice club,’ said Lonsdale, although it had gone down in his estimation once he had learned that Humbage was a member.

  Fleetwood-Pelham smiled. ‘Are you thinking of joining?’

  ‘I might,’ lied Lonsdale. ‘It’s more conveniently located than my current one. However, I’m also considering membership of the Watchers, and I can’t do both. I’ll have to make a choice.’

  Fleetwood-Pelham frowned. ‘The Watchers Club? I’ve not heard of that one. Where is it?’

  ‘It’s more a sect than a club,’ elaborated Lonsdale. ‘It’s based around here somewhere.’

  ‘I see,’ said Fleetwood-Pelham, although his mystified expression revealed that the explanation had done little to enlighten him. ‘So what do these Watchers watch exactly?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ admitted Lonsdale.

  Fleetwood-Pelham raised his eyebrows. ‘Then I wouldn’t think you had any choice to make – a genteel establishment like this one, which enrols courtiers, churchmen, lawyers, scientists, and military men, or an organization that “watches” something, but you don’t know what and you are uncertain where. Has it occurred to you that it might be something distasteful?’