Watchers of the Dead

by Simon Beaufort

  Lonsdale went to bed, only to toss and turn for an age, plagued by questions and worries. He fell into a deep drowse about an hour before Sybil woke him by raking out the fire in the room below. He groaned, wondering how she could contrive to make such an ungodly racket armed only with a poker and a brush. He sat up, blinking blearily, and began to plan his day.

  It was Tuesday, which meant that in five days it would be Christmas Eve, when the Watchers’ ‘unspeakable’ plan would swing into action. He had to prevent it, knowing he would never forgive himself if lives were lost. Moreover, any number of people had expectations of him: Morley had ordered him to solve the murders by then; Dean Haldane and Lady Bowyer were desperate for answers about their lost loved ones, and Stead wanted the Kumu found and taken to a place of safety. Lonsdale had no idea how to do any of it.

  He rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to concentrate. Most immediately pressing were the murders, especially as the Kumu seemed to be doing a perfectly good job of keeping themselves hidden. He had spoken to the families of Bowyer, Haldane and Gurney, and had quizzed Roth about Dickerson. Now he needed to speak to Tait’s daughter, still at the Archbishop’s Palace, to see if she had answers the others had failed to provide.

  He decided to catch the first available train to Surrey that morning. When he came home, he would visit the Garraway Club again, to ask about the painting of the angel, and if he was denied access, he would break in and see what he could learn by stealth.

  Feeling a little more optimistic with a plan in place, he dressed quickly and hurried downstairs, where he asked the cook for eggs – it was going to be a long day, and he was not sure when, or if, there would be another opportunity to eat. The morning papers were stacked on the sideboard, and he scowled when he saw The Echo among them. He discovered why it kept finding its way upstairs when he happened to glance out of the window and saw Sybil deep in conversation with Voules. They were laughing together, and he supposed Voules had either bribed or charmed her into making sure it reached the brothers.

  ‘You should dismiss her,’ he said to Jack, who arrived shortly afterwards dressed for a day in court. ‘If you don’t, Emelia will – she won’t want a maid who flirts with the likes of Voules.’

  ‘She won’t want a maid who flirts with anyone,’ averred Jack. ‘But I’m not getting rid of Sybil. She is the only maid I’ve ever known who can make a decent cup of tea.’

  Unable to help himself, Lonsdale opened The Echo. He recognized Voules’s distinctive style in the article about dinosaurs being bred in the Natural History Museum, but the cannibals and Maclean’s escape had been parcelled out to other reporters, all of whom seemed determined to create as much fear and suspicion as possible. When Lonsdale’s eggs arrived, he turned to The Standard, and read of several unprovoked assaults on black people, almost certainly a result of the rubbish published by the gutter press.

  ‘I don’t like the foreign news,’ remarked Jack, who had The Daily Telegraph. ‘The French have forced the Chinese to abandon Tonkin, and now control a large swathe of the Far East, while Bismarck’s son is visiting Austria, which is an indication of a stronger German-Austrian alliance. It bodes ill for the future.’

  While he ate, hurrying so as to leave for Surrey as soon as possible, Lonsdale told Jack what more he had learned about the murders, including what he and Hulda had gleaned from Galton the previous evening. Jack’s eyes widened in alarm when he saw his brother was being drawn into some very dark waters but, before he could speak, there was a knock on the door. They regarded each other in surprise – it was far too early for visitors. Their surprise turned to astonishment when Anne walked in, her maid in tow as a chaperone.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ asked Jack in alarm. ‘Emelia? Is she ill?’

  ‘All is well,’ replied Anne soothingly. ‘I just wanted to see my fiancé, and before dawn is the only time I can be sure of catching him. I came at ten o’clock last night, thinking he was sure to be home, but there was no sign of either of you.’

  Lonsdale smiled, but inside was cursing himself for wanting breakfast. If he had gone to the station as soon as he was dressed, he would have been on his way to Surrey, whereas now he would be delayed indefinitely. Then he berated himself sharply. What was he thinking? This was the woman he loved, and if he thought being with her was not the best use of his time, there was something seriously amiss.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ he asked, forcing himself to not fiddle with the silverware to betray his agitation.

  She accepted and began to chat about a meeting she had attended on women’s suffrage, while Lonsdale watched the minute hand of the clock on the mantelpiece. He stopped listening, his mind on the murders again. Absently, his gaze fell on the dinosaur claw that he had promised to take to the Natural History Museum. He had intended to do it that week, although he doubted he would have time now. His attention snapped back to Anne when one sentence permeated his consciousness.

  ‘Papa wanted to make sure you aren’t still pursuing these nasty murders. He’s worried that such an unsavoury matter may drag the Humbage name through the mud by association.’

  Lonsdale frowned, ignoring Jack’s warning kick under the table. ‘He sent you here to tell me to flout my editor’s orders?’

  Anne shook her head impatiently. ‘He didn’t send me, Alec – I chose to come. But he’s right. Murder is sordid, not to mention dangerous, and I don’t want you embroiled in it.’

  Lonsdale took one of her hands in his; it was icy cold. ‘It’s my job. Besides, the victims of this lunatic deserve justice, and The PMG has always prided itself on—’

  Anne jerked her hand away. ‘But I don’t want you to do it. What if something happens to you? It would break my heart.’

  ‘Nothing will happen,’ Lonsdale assured her. ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘That’s not very comforting,’ said Anne wretchedly. ‘It means you know how to brawl, which is hardly laudable.’

  ‘Nor is looking the other way at injustice,’ argued Lonsdale. ‘That’s why I like working for The Pall Mall Gazette. Our articles make a difference by drawing the public’s attention to—’

  ‘No!’ interrupted Anne, raising her hand to stop him. ‘That’s a lot of self-righteous twaddle, designed to make you feel better about something you know you shouldn’t be doing. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes – I know you.’

  But Lonsdale stood his ground, and within minutes, the disagreement had escalated into a full-scale row. It reached a climax when he pointed out that they used to think alike, but ever since their engagement, she seemed to have lost her capacity for independent thought and listened too much to the repressive views of her father and sister. Eyes flashing furiously, Anne jumped to her feet and swept out, the maid scurrying at her heels. Lonsdale should have been appalled to see his betrothed leave him in such a manner, but all he could think was that it meant he could still make the nine o’clock train.

  ‘Your marriage is going to be a stormy one,’ remarked Jack, who had pretended to read the paper throughout in the hope that he would not be drawn into the spat.

  ‘I’m not sure there will be a marriage,’ said Lonsdale stiffly. ‘I can’t have a wife who denigrates my chosen profession. No man can.’

  ‘Do you love her?’ asked Jack quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lonsdale, then reconsidered. ‘Or perhaps I love the idea of her. She’s pretty, intelligent, and we have much in common. However, I’m learning that there are rather a lot of things we disagree about, and I have a feeling those will be the ones that will matter.’

  Jack looked out of the window. ‘When I first met Em, I thought about her all the time – I could barely work for longing to be with her. She meant everything to me. I was besotted.’

  ‘And now?’ asked Lonsdale, surprised by the confession.

  ‘And now I feel as though I’m married already. She berates my servants, criticizes my choice of clothes, and reports all my confidences to her father. I
’ll still marry her, but I rather feel the shine has gone.’

  Lonsdale was sorry to hear it.

  Before leaving for Surrey, Lonsdale needed to get rid of Voules – The Echo reporter abandoned Sybil mid-giggle and began to follow him the moment he left the house, sticking to him like glue as he set off for Charing Cross. Lonsdale ducked down an alley, then stepped out in front of Voules when he followed a moment later.

  ‘I’m going to West Wickham,’ he informed him curtly. ‘Shall we sit on the train together or would you rather continue this pretence of going my way by chance?’

  Voules grinned, unabashed. ‘Just doing my job, Lonsdale. It’s because of you that I got the scoops on the cannibals and the dinosaurs, so it’s well worth the effort. And you’re involved in Maclean’s escape, so it’s in my interests to keep you in my sights. Did you like my editorial today? It—’

  ‘Maclean?’ interrupted Lonsdale. ‘What are you talking about? I know nothing about him or his escape.’

  Voules nodded off down the road. ‘Then why’s he following you?’

  Lonsdale looked to where he indicated and saw the now-familiar bowler-hatted figure.

  ‘That’s Maclean?’ he demanded. ‘Then why haven’t you made a citizen’s arrest? You’ve been braying for all “loyal Londoners” to lay hold of him and take him to the police, so why not follow your own trumpet call?’

  ‘Because he might be armed,’ replied Voules, not unreasonably.

  Lonsdale grabbed his arm and hauled him into someone’s back garden, where they lurked behind a dripping buddleia tree until Bowler Hat hurried past. Lonsdale leapt out and seized him by the scruff of the neck, eliciting a yelp of alarm. But once he had him, Lonsdale could see that he had snagged the wrong man. His captive was not the person who had been following him, but an innocent clerk going about his business. He let him go with profuse apologies, while Voules chortled.

  ‘Don’t blame me,’ he shrugged when Lonsdale rounded angrily on him. ‘You just pounced on the first man with a bowler who happened past. You should have checked it was the right one before flying into action.’

  Lonsdale stalked away, glad when Voules made no attempt to follow. On the main road, there was no sign of ‘Maclean’, or anyone else with a bowler hat.

  Unfortunately, the episode with Voules was just the first in a catalogue of mishaps that characterized the rest of Lonsdale’s day. It, and his argument with Anne, meant he missed the nine o’clock train, forcing him to wait for the next one. It was late, then proceeded to sit for half an hour at the platform before finally chuffing away. He changed at London Bridge for the North Kent Railway, but the only available seat was in a very ancient coach that stank of soot, grease and the goat that had been brought aboard by the passenger opposite.

  The train groaned and rattled its way to Lewisham, where he changed again, this time to a Mid-Kent Line train for New Beckenham. There he missed his connection, obliging him to sit for two hours in the middle of nowhere, growing increasingly agitated as the porters kept assuring him that the next train would ‘arrive at any moment’. It appeared eventually, and took him to West Wickham, where he found his woes were not yet over.

  It was pouring with rain, but there was no trap or carriage in sight. He asked for directions and was horrified to learn that Addington Palace was two and a half miles away, and the only way to reach it was on foot. Having come so far, he was not about to go home empty-handed, so he turned up the collar of his coat, tightened his belt to keep his trousers from dragging in the mud, and set off.

  It was a miserable hike, with the wind driving in his face the whole way, so by the time the Archbishop’s Palace – a sprawling, rather ugly eighteenth-century mansion – came into sight, he was soaked to the skin, muddy, and very cold. He knocked on the door, where a manservant looked him up and down in distaste, and it was fortunate that Tait’s daughter happened to be walking her dogs at that moment, or he was sure he would have been turned away.

  Lucy Tait was a tall, mannish woman, whose clothes were covered in horse hairs. The horses were her primary concern, because there were a lot of them, she loved them dearly, and she had not yet found a new home that could comfortably accommodate them all. And she knew she was running out of time, because her father’s successor would be named in the next day or two and would want to move in to his new official residence as soon as possible.

  She did not invite Lonsdale inside, perfectly warm and comfortable in her thick riding coat and waterproof boots, so the entire interview was conducted in the teeming rain. Lonsdale shivered almost uncontrollably, but she failed to notice his discomfort, although at least she was willing to answer his questions, especially when he told her that her father’s death was not the only one he was exploring.

  ‘He was a difficult man,’ she began, ‘but I adored him, and no one had the right to steal his life. He deserved better, and I’m glad you aim to see he gets it, especially as the police have suddenly decided that violent stabbings equate with “natural causes”.’

  ‘They were told that the matter had been settled by a “higher authority”, and the investigating officers ordered to take it no further.’

  Lucy raised her eyebrows. ‘God is the only higher authority my father would have recognized, and I don’t think He undertakes murder enquiries, not when He’ll recognize the culprit by the stinking blackness of his soul.’

  ‘The police think someone in the Church has asked for discretion.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure someone did, but “discretion” isn’t the same as “sweeping under the carpet”, which seems to have happened to my father’s death. The Church will go a long way to avoid a scandal, but it would never conceal the callous murder of its leader.’

  ‘Not even if the culprit is another clergyman?’

  ‘You refer to the fact that my father’s policies made him enemies,’ mused Lucy. ‘And you are right to ask, because he did rub people up the wrong way. However, not even the most vitriolic of his clerical critics would resort to murder. At least, not in so brutal a fashion. Did you hear how he was killed?’

  Lonsdale nodded. ‘The other four victims suffered similar attacks.’

  Lucy winced. ‘Before you came along, I had no idea there were other victims. I’m sure Superintendent Hayes and Inspector Peters would have told me, as they seem honest and competent men, but once Inspector Wells took over, all communication stopped. He hasn’t been to see me once, despite my daily letters demanding news of his progress.’

  ‘Wells has been assigned to the other murders, too.’

  Lucy regarded him astutely. ‘Yet I have the sense that his refusal to contact me has nothing to do with five murders being a lot for one man to handle, and more to do with this “higher authority” not wanting the case solved. The authority must be Commissioner Henderson, because it was he who wrote telling me that Wells had been appointed.’

  Lonsdale struggled not to wince as icy water began to run down the back of his neck. ‘I suspect Henderson was acting on the orders of someone higher still. I think it might be something to do with a group called the Watchers. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. My father was a Watcher, and was very proud of the fact, although he wasn’t a vain man. I’m not sure what they did, but I do know they met at the Garraway Club.’

  ‘Is there anything in your father’s belongings that might tell us what being a Watcher entailed?’ asked Lonsdale, not averse to spending an hour indoors, where he might be able to set his wet clothes by a fire to dry before the homeward journey.

  ‘I had a look after he died,’ replied Lucy. ‘But then the Church Commissioners came along and boxed everything up for their archives. I was thorough, though, because I was desperate to know if he had anything that might explain why he was murdered. There was nothing. And I’m still desperate, which is why I’m standing out here with you, getting soaked to the skin.’

  ‘We could go inside,’ suggested Lonsdale hopefully.

  ‘We coul
d, but then you’d miss the last train back to London, and I don’t think you’d enjoy a night on the station bench. But to return to the Watchers, do you think my father was killed because of them?’

  ‘Dickerson and Gurney were Watchers, and they’re dead. I don’t know about Bowyer and Haldane – yet. However, it seems likely. Are you sure you can’t tell me more about them?’

  ‘It was a secret society – its members never discussed what they did or said. However, my father wouldn’t have countenanced anything untoward.’

  ‘Two more questions,’ said Lonsdale quickly, aware that he was in the process of being dismissed. ‘Who discovered your father’s body?’

  ‘I did. He’d been killed in his study, probably with some kind of axe or sword.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you noticed a piece of grass on or near him?’

  Lucy frowned. ‘It’s funny you should ask, because there was one. I assumed it had blown in through the window, which the killer left open as he made his escape. I threw it away, but I can tell you that it was long with pinkish seeds.’

  ‘It’s from Africa, where one name for it is Watchers of the Dead because it grows near burial sites. Did your father have any African connections?’

  ‘He never mentioned any to me, but going through his papers, I discovered that he donated large sums of his own money to a hospital in Natal. I wish he’d told me – I could have said it made me proud. He was a good man, Mr Lonsdale, in ways that matter. He didn’t brag about his charity, but kept it between him and God.’

  ‘Did he ever talk about the Garraway Club?’ asked Lonsdale, trying to stand firm as she began to ease him towards the gate.

  ‘Only when he wanted to tell me about that wretched Grim Death.’

  Lonsdale’s pulse quickened. ‘Grim Death?’