‘Better known as Grimaldi d’Atte from Italy. Professor Dickerson started calling him Grim Death, and it amused my father, so he did it, too. Señor d’Atte is the Watcher who convened the meetings, and he always signed himself Grim Death. I found several of his letters in my father’s study. I burned them, lest the Church Commissioners got the wrong idea.’
‘Why “that wretched” Grim Death?’
‘Because he can’t sing to save his life, although he considers himself a serious rival to Edward Lloyd, who has the voice of an angel. He’s always applying for leading roles with the best opera companies, and my father loved to tell me of his antics, because he knew they would send me apoplectic with disbelief.’
‘Your father enjoyed taunting you?’
‘Teasing me. It was something special we shared.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘And the killer ripped that away. I hope you track down the bastard, Mr Lonsdale. And when you do, land a good punch from me.’
The journey home was even worse than the outward one. The train from West Wickham was late and the waiting room was closed, which meant Lonsdale had to stand outside. It had stopped raining, but he was still wet and quickly grew chilled. Then he arrived at New Beckenham to discover that a cow on the tracks had delayed all northbound trains.
There was another long wait at Lewisham because of flooding, so by the time he alighted at Charing Cross, it was nearly nine o’clock. He almost wished Voules and Bowler Hat had been on his tail all day, because it would have been satisfying to see them share his misery.
And yet the day had brought its rewards, in that he now had an identity for Grim Death, not to mention confirming that Tait had been a Watcher and the killer had left a piece of grass with the body. He also had more evidence that Commissioner Henderson was complicit in ensuring that the murders were never solved.
He was exhausted but decided to visit the Garraway and demand an interview with Señor d’Atte that night anyway. The club seemed to lie at the heart of the mystery, after all. He wondered if Burnside would let him explore it when all the members had gone home – the photographer was short of money, so might well agree to look the other way for a price. And the following day, he would go to Scotland Yard and demand to speak to Commissioner Henderson – to see if he could find out who had ordered Hayes and Peters to be dismissed in favour of the inept Wells.
As he was wet and muddy, he went home to change first, knowing he would not be allowed in any club looking like a vagrant. He arrived to hear voices coming from the dining room. He assumed Jack was entertaining Emelia, and braced himself accordingly, but when he went in, it was to see Hulda. She had dressed for dinner, and her new comb looked pretty in her fair hair.
‘What’re you doing here?’ he blurted.
‘Waiting for you,’ she replied. ‘I thought you’d be home hours ago.’
‘So did I,’ said Lonsdale, slumping on a chair and helping himself to a boiled potato, which was all that was left of what had evidently been a very hearty dinner, judging by the remains on their plates.
He told her and Jack all he had learned, then listened to Hulda explain how she had concentrated on finding the Kumu. She had spoken to Owen and the other museum staff first, then had gone to Roth’s lodgings, where she claimed to have interviewed him with great gentleness and tact. However, as she thought he had responded ‘shiftily’ to her questions, she had spent the remainder of her day monitoring him.
‘But he knew I was there and escaped through the back door,’ she finished resentfully. ‘I spent all afternoon watching an empty house, which I only realized when it became dark and no lights went on. However, his slippery antics suggest we should certainly visit him again tomorrow. Perhaps you can prise the truth from him.’
Lonsdale did not think there was anything to prise, but nodded agreement. Then Jack spoke.
‘I went to speak to Anne for you,’ he said, and with a guilty pang Lonsdale realized he had not given his fiancée a single thought since their quarrel that morning. ‘I think I’ve smoothed things over, although you’d better give her a spectacular gift for Christmas.’
‘Lord!’ groaned Lonsdale. ‘I’ve spent rather a lot on hansoms and trains these last few days, so I hope Garrard has something relatively inexpensive.’
‘I’ll lend you some money,’ said Jack. ‘I dislike the sight of blood – and yours will be spilled unless you do what’s expected of you on Monday.’
‘I should change,’ said Lonsdale, his mind already back on the investigation. ‘I want to speak to Grim Death tonight.’
‘You’ll be too late,’ predicted Jack. ‘By the time you get there, the club will be empty. Or do you know where he lives?’
‘No,’ admitted Lonsdale. ‘But perhaps Burnside will be on duty and will let me in to search the place. D’Atte’s address is sure to be recorded somewhere.’
‘And if Burnside isn’t there?’
‘I’ll break in,’ replied Lonsdale, aware of a sense of growing excitement as he felt answers within his grasp at last.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Hulda, and raised a hand to quell his objections. ‘You aim to enter on the sly, so what difference will it make if you do it alone or with a woman? Now go and change, because I don’t want to commit burglary with a drowned rat.’
It was nearly eleven o’clock when Lonsdale and Hulda walked up Exchange Alley. They took up residence in a doorway opposite and studied the Garraway carefully. Most of its lights were out, although lamps were still lit in the hallway and the dining room. Voices emanated from within, laughing and joking. Moments later, the door opened, and several men emerged. They called amiable goodnights to each other, then walked away in different directions.
‘I can see the night porter,’ whispered Hulda. ‘It’s not Burnside.’
Lights began to go out, and Lonsdale saw Jack had been right to predict that it was too late for Grim Death to be available for questions. They went to the back of the premises, where Hulda deftly picked the lock on the door that led to the kitchen – a skill Lonsdale could never imagine Anne acquiring. There was a smell of roasted meat, and the leftovers in the pantry suggested that members of the Garraway enjoyed fine food to go with the luxurious surroundings of the dining room.
The ground floor was for servants – or rather, for commoners like Burnside and Roth – as, beyond the elegant entrance hall, there was a shabby but comfortable sitting room for them, along with beds for those whose duties kept them late at night. There was a cellar that held an impressive collection of good wine, while the formal dining service was hand-painted in gold. Curiously, there were several crates of old plates stacked in the hallways, while four huge casks of beer formed an inconvenient obstacle in the scullery.
There was a nasty moment when a snort came from the darkness, and Hulda and Lonsdale froze in alarm, but the commoner sleeping there did not wake, so on they went. They climbed a flight of wooden stairs, alert for any indication that they were discovered, and found themselves on the main floor.
‘Lord!’ muttered Lonsdale, as they peered around the dining-room door and saw the Christmas decorations that had been erected since his last visit. There was a huge tree, paper chains, red candles, and so many silver balls that the room seemed to sparkle. Long tables had been set out. ‘It looks as if they intend to entertain a lot of guests – you could seat two hundred people in here!’
‘And they’ll do it on Christmas Eve,’ whispered Hulda, pointing to a printed schedule pinned to a door, which stated the dining room would host a private event the following Sunday afternoon – Christmas Eve. All club members were politely requested to stay away until the following Tuesday.
‘A “private event”,’ mused Lonsdale, ‘on the day that the Watchers aim to do something that involves blood and sacrifice and will prove what they’re capable of. If they do it when this hall is full of people, the number of casualties could be horrifying!’
The library and reading rooms were empty, but voices could be
heard in the smoking room. They crept towards it and saw Roth with Burnside. The photographer was emptying ashtrays and collecting old papers, while Roth trailed after him, muttering.
‘So, Roth came here when he gave me the slip so slyly,’ breathed Hulda. ‘Can you hear what he’s saying?’
Roth was speaking in a very low voice, but Lonsdale thought he heard the word ‘Khoikhoi’ because, if pronounced properly, it had a click at the beginning. It was the third time Roth had mentioned that particular people – although the first two had allegedly been slips of the tongue. Lonsdale was bemused by it, especially when it was clear that Roth was agitated, unsettled and fearful.
‘We should confront him,’ whispered Hulda. ‘Demand to know why he contrived to escape from me. Look at him! Have you ever seen a more furtive demeanour?’
Lonsdale had, but not often. ‘We can’t do it here. He’ll want to know how we got in, and I refuse to admit that we picked the lock on—’
He broke off and pulled Hulda into a broom cupboard when he heard footsteps in the hall behind them. They had only just stepped out of sight when Lord Carlingford stamped past, Fleetwood-Pelham scurrying at his heels. Carlingford was shaking with fury.
‘It’s outrageous!’ he snarled, stalking into the smoking room. Seeing his angry face, Roth and Burnside nodded polite greetings and made a tactful retreat to the commoners’ quarters, clearly unwilling to be in the firing line when the testy baron was in a temper. ‘How dare they charge us extra after a price was agreed! I’m going to kill him!’
‘Easy!’ cautioned Fleetwood-Pelham. ‘It’s not as if we can’t afford it.’
‘That’s not the point,’ raged Carlingford. ‘I can’t abide men who go back on their word. I’m going to blast out his meagre brains!’
‘Please don’t,’ said Fleetwood-Pelham tiredly. ‘The police have enough murders to explore with Tait and the rest. They don’t need another.’
Carlingford was about to argue further when his eye lit on the painting of the angel. He stalked towards it, and then there was another outburst.
‘Look at this! Some light-fingered bastard has stolen the nameplate off the bottom of this picture! God save us! Is nothing sacred?’
Fleetwood-Pelham peered at the empty spot in dismay. ‘Who could’ve done such a thing?’
‘Those bloody commoners!’ spat Carlingford. ‘They are thieves to a man. If they can’t pay the fees, then we shouldn’t let them in. It’s a stupid scheme, and Gurney should never have introduced it. I’d rather pay for servants.’
Fleetwood-Pelham glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then lowered his voice to a gossipy whisper. ‘Burnside’s down on his luck, and bitter about the way he thinks he’s been treated by the Queen. I wouldn’t put it past him to steal.’
‘Where is the rogue? I’ll chop off his thieving fingers,’ railed Carlingford, and stalked back the way he had come, Fleetwood-Pelham hurrying after him.
Lonsdale heaved a sigh of relief, not liking to imagine what Carlingford would have done to him and Hulda, had they been caught. He peered around the door to make sure they had gone and saw a piece of paper lying on the floor. It had not been there before, so he assumed the courtiers had dropped it.
‘So someone’s cheated them,’ mused Hulda, watching Lonsdale pick it up. ‘I wonder if the culprit will be the next victim.’
‘It’s a baker,’ said Lonsdale, showing her the paper. ‘Here’s a bill for a thousand mince pies – God only knows why the club needs that many – with an original price and a much higher revised one. I don’t blame Carlingford for being irked – he’ll never get another baker to fill such a large order at this late stage.’
They heard Carlingford and Fleetwood-Pelham talking in the library shortly afterwards, at which point the commoners began dousing more lamps. Hulda and Lonsdale waited until they had finished and the club was quiet, then began to explore, eventually finding an office where the club’s records were kept. Lonsdale closed the curtains and laid a rug across the bottom of the door to hide the light, while Hulda lit a candle.
It was not long before they realized they were wasting their time. There was nothing about the Watchers, and nearly every file pertained to purchases of the basics that kept the club running – food, wine, fuel, books, snuff and tobacco. They exchanged a resigned, disappointed glance, and prepared to leave the way they had come, via the back door.
All was well until they reached the hall, at which point they met Roth, who released a shrill howl of alarm. Lonsdale grabbed Hulda’s hand and hauled her towards the front door instead, glad it was dark and Roth had not seen their faces. The yell alerted others. Burnside hurtled up from the basement, and Carlingford and Fleetwood-Pelham emerged from the library.
‘Stop!’ bellowed Carlingford when he saw the shadowy figures running away. ‘Or I’ll shoot.’
Before Lonsdale and Hulda could oblige, there was a colossal bang, and the doorframe next to Lonsdale’s head flew into splinters. He and Hulda ducked in alarm, and began wrestling frantically with the bolts, praying they could slip them before they were gunned down.
‘Carlingford, no!’ cried Fleetwood-Pelham. ‘You can’t shoot people in—’
There was another shot, and the glass in the door shattered. Lonsdale glanced behind him to see Fleetwood-Pelham frantically trying to wrest the gun from Carlingford’s hand, simultaneously yelling for Roth and Burnside to lay hold of the thieves, although neither commoner would oblige as long as Carlingford was waving his gun in that direction. Then Lonsdale noticed that Carlingford was not the only one who was armed: so was Roth.
Hulda’s bolt shot back, so Lonsdale hauled open the door. A third shot followed, although Carlingford’s aim was spoiled by Fleetwood-Pelham struggling to disarm him. With the baron’s scream of rage ringing in their ears, they raced into the night and allowed the darkness to swallow them up.
NINE
Neither Lonsdale nor Hulda felt like going home after their narrow escape, so they took a hansom to Northumberland Street. They made the journey in silence, both shocked by the ferocity of Carlingford’s reaction to intruders. It was not unusual for burglars to be shot, but the police took a dim view of it, especially when the culprits were unarmed and leaving empty-handed.
‘He wanted to kill us,’ Hulda whispered, when they were in the reporters’ room with steaming cups of tea. Her face was ashen. ‘Gun us down where we stood, with Fleetwood-Pelham, Roth and Burnside looking on.’
‘Fleetwood-Pelham tried to stop him,’ said Lonsdale.
‘The other two didn’t,’ said Hulda. ‘Roth is a coward, even though he had a gun, too, while Burnside probably remembers what happened the last time he played the hero – his efforts barely acknowledged.’
‘We’d better not tell anyone else about this,’ said Lonsdale, sipping the tea, ‘or Mr Morley will take us off the case. I’m not sure we’ll have answers by Christmas Eve, but we made some progress tonight, and I don’t want to give up now.’
‘What progress? We learned nothing about the Watchers.’
‘On the contrary, we knew they had something “unspeakable” planned for Christmas, and now we can surmise that it will happen in the Garraway – the preparations we saw indicate that a large number of guests are expected. That information might allow us to thwart them.’
‘True. Do you think Carlingford is our murderer? He was very free with his pistol tonight, and he threatened to kill the baker. He’s a violent man with an uncontrollable temper, and Bradwell did say the five victims were killed in frenzied attacks.’
‘It’s possible. What about Fleetwood-Pelham as a suspect?’
‘He is such a chatter-head that he’d betray himself by dint of wanting to gossip about it. Besides, he knows we’re exploring the case, but hasn’t tried to stop us. On the contrary, he’s offered information and advice. However, the same can’t be said for Roth and Burnside.’
‘Roth isn’t a killer,’ stated Lonsdale firmly. ‘And it
can’t be Burnside, because he was with me when Haldane was murdered – we saw Haldane enter the Royal Courts of Justice together, and he was still with me when the news came about his death.’
‘He was with you the whole time?’ asked Hulda, growing sleepy as the fright of their close call began to recede, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
‘Yes, he …’ But Lonsdale trailed off, because Burnside had disappeared – for about an hour, returning pink-faced and warm, although it had been a cold day. The photographer could easily have entered the building, killed Haldane, and come out again.
Yet Burnside did not seem like a murderer any more than Roth did. Lonsdale glanced at Hulda and saw she was asleep. She had not heard his hesitation, so he decided to keep his concerns to himself. He would share them with her if they became relevant but, until then, there was nothing to be gained by pointing the finger at a man who was almost certainly innocent.
‘Come on,’ he said, shaking her shoulder gently to wake her. ‘We should both go home. We have a busy day tomorrow.’
Again, Lonsdale woke feeling lethargic and thick-headed from lack of sleep, jolted from a deep slumber by the racket Sybil made laying the fire in the room below. He sat up, aware of a sick, uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. It intensified when he remembered that he had just four days left, and he and Hulda had a lot to do if he aimed to catch a killer, save the Kumu, and thwart the Watchers.
He planned what needed to be done that day. Most urgent was cornering Grim Death and demanding information about the Watchers, given that the Italian was in charge of convening their gatherings. Then he should visit the office to update Morley and Stead on his progress. Next, he would speak to Roth and Burnside, to see if they could tell him what was brewing at the Garraway and, after that, contrive a meeting with Fleetwood-Pelham. Hulda was right to say he was a gossip, so perhaps he could be persuaded to chat about Carlingford, and where the baron was when five men were brutally murdered.
He washed, shaved and dressed, then hurried downstairs, pausing to warn Sybil that if she continued to flirt with Voules, she could look for another job.
Watchers of the Dead Page 19