Watchers of the Dead

by Simon Beaufort

  She regarded him sullenly. ‘You have a visitor,’ she said. Then added with a smirk, ‘He’s in a filthy mood.’

  It was Humbage, who was standing at the window with his hands clenched into angry fists behind his back. It was unsociably early for visiting, and Lonsdale was tempted to say so.

  ‘I understand you’ve failed to heed my orders,’ he said before Lonsdale could open his mouth. ‘You’ve continued to meddle in unsavoury business. Worse, you committed burglary last night – that’s a criminal offence.’

  ‘Burglary?’ blustered Lonsdale, supposing he had been recognized after all. Regardless, Humbage had no authority to ‘order’ him to do anything, and Lonsdale resented the presumption.

  ‘My friend Lord Carlingford wrote me a most irate note about it,’ Humbage went on with barely concealed fury, and held up the comb that Fleetwood-Pelham had given Hulda. ‘This was found on the street outside his club after two intruders raided it.’

  ‘It’s not mine,’ said Lonsdale flippantly. ‘It would clash with my eyes.’

  ‘Don’t play the fool with me, Lonsdale,’ snarled Humbage. ‘It proves you and that woman were somewhere you had no right to be – inside a gentlemen’s club.’

  Lonsdale regarded him coldly. ‘It “proves” nothing. You say it was found outside, so if the comb does belong to Miss Friederichs – and it does look like the one Fleetwood-Pelham gave her when he took us to the Palace – the chances are that she lost it earlier in the day.’

  ‘Sir Algernon took you to the Palace?’ blurted Humbage, envy in his voice.

  ‘To his rooms,’ elaborated Lonsdale. ‘Have you been there?’

  Knowing he was being baited, Humbage resumed his attack. ‘And the woman just happened to “lose” it outside the Garraway, the very same day that two people matching your descriptions were up to no good inside?’

  ‘Miss Friederichs had the building under surveillance,’ replied Lonsdale coolly, ‘because it’s connected to some very unsavoury activities.’

  Humbage bristled. ‘I’ll have you know that the Garraway is a respectable establishment, patronized by important and influential men.’

  ‘Men like Grimaldi d’Atte?’ asked Lonsdale archly, ‘who convenes meetings of a sly and sinister society calling itself the Watchers?’

  ‘The Watchers?’ echoed Humbage, and Lonsdale knew him well enough to read genuine mystification; he was not a member of that exclusive sect. ‘Never heard of it! However, I admit that d’Atte is below the Garraway’s usual standards. Indeed, I was delighted when I heard he’d taken himself off to Glasgow to sing opera to the barbarous hordes.’

  ‘When will he be back?’ asked Lonsdale, trying to conceal his dismay that a promising line of enquiry might have been cut short.

  ‘Not for months,’ replied Humbage. ‘He left his lodgings and had all his belongings put into storage. But I’m not here to provide you with tittle-tattle – I’m here to demand an explanation for your actions last night.’

  ‘You can demand all you like,’ said Lonsdale. ‘But I don’t answer to you.’

  ‘You do if you aim to marry my daughter. I specifically asked you not to involve yourself in a scandal, and you promptly go out and commit a crime. I won’t have my good name sullied by an association with a common felon. Do it again, and I shall forbid the match.’

  ‘You can try,’ said Lonsdale, sure Anne would not permit it. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else, I have work to do.’

  When Lonsdale left the house, he saw Voules standing with Sybil, and supposed she felt free to ignore his ultimatum, because she knew Jack liked how she made the tea. He approached them, and saw her expression was wary but defiant. He addressed Voules.

  ‘Sir Gervais Humbage,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You might want to follow him today, because then you’ll be sure of a good story.’

  ‘What good story?’ demanded Voules suspiciously.

  Lonsdale declined to elaborate, and only gave him a conspiratorial wink as he left. However, when he glanced behind him a few moments later, he saw The Echo man hurrying in the direction Humbage had taken. Good, he thought. At least he would have one day without being followed – as far as he could tell, there was no sign of Bowler Hat either.

  It was still early – dawn was only just shedding its cold grey light across the city – but Lonsdale decided to visit Roth before going to the office. This time, he vowed, he would have the truth about whatever secrets the Garraway harboured – ones that compelled Roth to arm himself – and he would not leave until he had them. However, he arrived to find the door to Roth’s rooms open, and a team of cleaners within.

  ‘He moved out,’ explained the landlady who watched the workmen with an eagle eye. ‘Paid what he owed and bade me farewell. All he left behind are some bits of broken wood and that peculiar stink. I’m not sure I’ll ever get rid of it.’

  It was the smell that Roth said came from the professor’s collections. Lonsdale still could not identify it, but knew it was familiar. It was a spice or some sort of scented wood …

  In one corner was a broken headrest of the kind favoured by natives of the Cape Colony. He picked it up. The break looked recent, and he wondered if Roth had been using it to sleep, to remind himself of happier times – before his health was shattered and he still had a future full of excitement.

  ‘Did he tell you where he was going?’ asked Lonsdale.

  The woman shook her head. ‘Which was peculiar, because what happens if letters come for him? How do I forward them?’

  ‘How indeed?’ murmured Lonsdale, perturbed that Roth should have left the morning after the trouble at the Garraway. Moreover, the fact that Roth had a gun meant he anticipated the kind of situation where one might be needed. He had not shot at the ‘intruders’ himself, but Lonsdale had not been happy with the sight of it in his friend’s hand.

  Reluctantly, although he remained convinced that Roth was not a killer, he conceded that he was certainly involved in something untoward.

  The reporters’ room felt like Lonsdale looked – dull, shabby and tired. There was a December moth fluttering against the window, and the day outside was so dreary that Lonsdale thought the creature must imagine it was night. Hulda was there, so he told her his thoughts on Roth being armed and leaving his lodgings so precipitously.

  ‘Which means he must be embroiled in something questionable,’ he finished. ‘Although it’s difficult to believe, as he’s a gentle, honourable man. I can’t imagine how he let himself become drawn into … whatever’s happening at the Garraway.’

  ‘Murder is happening at the Garraway,’ said Hulda harshly. ‘And I’ve never had a problem with Roth as a suspect. He’s obviously short of money, so the prospect of a legacy from his mentor must’ve proved irresistible.’

  ‘That would suggest his affection for the professor wasn’t as deep as he claimed, but I’m sure he was telling the truth. Moreover, it’s a motive for dispatching Dickerson, but what about the others?’

  ‘They were all members of the Garraway, and who knows what goes on behind the closed doors of “gentlemen’s” clubs? Besides, people change, Lonsdale. You knew Roth a long time ago. Perhaps poverty and poor health turned a once-good man bad.’

  Lonsdale knew they would never agree, so changed the subject. ‘Did you realize you dropped your comb outside the Garraway last night? Humbage waved it at me this morning, while accusing me of burglary, which means our part in last night’s escapade is common knowledge. It may even be why Roth fled – he knows we’re coming closer to the truth.’

  ‘I knew I’d lost it, but I didn’t know where. Did you get it back for me?’

  Before Lonsdale could tell her it had been the last thing on his mind, Stead walked in. The assistant editor was wearing a smart suit, but there was a large ceramic lizard poking from one pocket in lieu of the more usual handkerchief. Stead offered no explanation for this peculiar fashion statement, and Hulda and Lonsdale declined to ask.

  ‘You must go
to Broadmoor,’ he said without preamble. ‘I have intelligence that suggests the answers to all your questions lie there.’

  ‘What intelligence?’ asked Lonsdale.

  ‘That the escaped Maclean is the killer you’ve been hunting. He’s been seen at the sites of all five murders – returning to the scenes of his triumphs. And if we can show he’s the culprit, The Echo will have to apologize to the Kumu for all the disgusting, bigoted, unwarranted vitriol they’ve published over the last few days.’

  ‘Who told you what Maclean has been doing?’ asked Hulda warily.

  ‘The urchins I pay for such information: five boys who’ve never met, so don’t say they concocted a tale together. Maclean is the killer, and you’ll go to Broadmoor to prove it – and quickly, because a mob gathered outside the Natural History Museum last night, blaming Owen for “importing flesh-eating monsters”. You must end this nonsense before an innocent is hurt.’

  ‘What will a trip to Broadmoor tell us?’ asked Lonsdale, sure it would be a waste of time, as it was clear to him that the real solution lay at the Garraway.

  ‘Maclean’s medical records,’ replied Stead promptly, ‘which may explain why he’s taken against those specific victims. If you can predict who might be next, you can help the police trap him, and see him returned to a place where he can do no more harm.’

  ‘A man who looks like Maclean has been following us,’ said Hulda. ‘A slim person in a bowler hat.’

  ‘Then you must hurry,’ said Stead, alarmed by the notion of a killer in Hulda’s vicinity. ‘How long will it take you to get to Broadmoor?’

  Lonsdale glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Too long – unless we leave right away. It’ll be more efficient to go first thing in the morning, because then we can speak to Burnside, Fleetwood-Pelham and Carlingford today, and try to gain an understanding of what they’re up to and how – if – it relates to Maclean.’

  ‘That’s not a good idea,’ said Hulda in alarm. ‘Not if they know it was us who broke in last night. Even if the three of them are innocent of murder, they’ll be angry about what we did, and will refuse to answer our questions.’

  ‘Broke in?’ echoed Stead in horror. ‘I hope you haven’t done anything illegal. The PMG won’t countenance crime.’

  ‘Not even to save the Kumu?’ asked Hulda slyly.

  ‘Perhaps we should just question Burnside,’ said Lonsdale before Stead could press her for an explanation. ‘I’m sure I can convince him to cooperate.’

  Nevertheless, a warning bell sounded at the back of his mind when he recalled the photographer’s timely disappearance outside the Royal Courts of Justice when Haldane was killed.

  ‘He’s a liar,’ declared Hulda uncompromisingly. ‘On the day the mortuary was nearly burned down, he told you that he was busy taking pictures of visitors in Hyde Park and that Gladstone stopped to greet him. But Gladstone wasn’t in London that day – he was giving a speech in Bristol for his Corrupt and Illegal Practices Prevention Act.’

  ‘We must find the Kumu and keep them safe,’ said Stead, returning to the issue that concerned him most. He opened his mouth to add more, but the moth flew into it. He snapped his jaws closed, stood utterly still for a few seconds, then opened his mouth again. Out flapped the moth unharmed, and he continued as if nothing had happened. ‘Very well – you may explore other leads today. But tomorrow, you’ll visit Broadmoor.’

  ‘If you insist,’ said Lonsdale, still sure it would be a fool’s errand. ‘Although while that may take us to Maclean, it won’t help us find the Kumu. I’m not sure how we’ll do that.’

  Stead pondered for a moment. ‘Go to see Henry Morton Stanley. He’s been to the Kumu’s bit of the Lualaba River – the first European ever to do so – and may be able to tell you what sort of environments they favour. Kew, among the tropical plants, the forests of Hampshire …’

  Lonsdale was sure that would be even less useful than Broadmoor. ‘It won’t—’

  Stead cut across him. ‘See him this morning. He won’t turn away two of my best reporters, no matter how busy he claims to be.’

  ‘He’s not well,’ said Lonsdale, sure he and Hulda would get nowhere near him and loath to waste time trying. ‘He’s still recovering from the haematuric fever he caught in the Congo.’

  ‘He was well enough to enjoy a public spat with Francis Galton last week,’ argued Stead. ‘But go, go! It’s Wednesday today, so you only have four days to catch Maclean, find evidence that he committed those murders, thwart the Watchers, and rescue the Kumu. Hurry!’

  Knowing from experience that they would be turned away if they appeared unannounced at the home of so eminent a person, Lonsdale sent a boy with his card and a request to visit Stanley as soon as possible. While they waited for the reply, Hulda dashed off an article on that morning’s announcement from Canterbury – that the Bishop of Truro, Edward White Benson, would be the next Archbishop.

  Lonsdale, meanwhile, said he wanted some air, but the moment he was outside, he took a hansom to Burnside’s home, suspecting the photographer would be more willing to talk to him on his own. It was a risk, given that Burnside would know that Lonsdale had broken into the Garraway, but time was short and Lonsdale was desperate for answers.

  The photographer and his landlady were both out, but Lonsdale peered through the windows and saw his rooms were still occupied – unlike Roth, Burnside had not made a run for it. He hesitated. Should he visit St James’s Palace in the hope that Fleetwood-Pelham would be willing to talk to him? Hulda was right to recommend staying away from Carlingford, as he would more likely shoot than answer questions, especially ones that might incriminate him. Moreover, it would be better to let her speak to Fleetwood-Pelham – he liked her enough to give her a comb, so she was more likely to be successful at prising answers from him. Lonsdale jumped into a hansom and asked the driver to take him to Exchange Alley, where he stood opposite the Garraway, peering up at its shuttered windows. Nothing moved inside, and eventually he conceded that staring at it was an exercise in futility.

  He hurried back to the office, only to find Voules waiting outside.

  ‘I thought you were monitoring Humbage,’ he said, struggling to mask his annoyance that The Echo man was back to being his shadow again.

  ‘I was, but he gave me the slip – he’s better at losing me than you are.’ Voules spoke without rancour, clearly believing that being slyly ditched was par for the course.

  Yet Lonsdale was surprised to hear the blustering, pompous Humbage was capable of a stealth that exceeded his own. It was suspicious, so perhaps he was right to suggest Voules should follow him. He flailed around for a way to convince Voules to go after him again.

  ‘So some other paper will have the story,’ he said, feigning regret. ‘Sorry, Voules. I did my best to pass it to you once Stead deemed it too sensational for us.’

  ‘I trailed him to St James’s Palace,’ said Voules, eyes gleaming. ‘Is the scandal something to do with royalty? Unfortunately, while we were both hanging around the door – him to be let in and me waiting to see what would happen – he spotted me. Then, when the guard refused him admittance, he stalked off and made sure he lost me in the park.’

  ‘He was barred from going in?’ asked Lonsdale, intrigued.

  ‘Very firmly – he argued, but the guard insisted that Lord Carlingford isn’t taking unwanted callers today. It was an insult, but he didn’t seem to take offence.’

  ‘Because his “friend” Carlingford can do no wrong,’ muttered Lonsdale. ‘Try looking for Humbage at the Garraway Club. I imagine he’ll go there at some point today, in the hope of meeting the man he aims to make a crony.’

  ‘I snagged a boy earlier, who said you’re off to meet Stanley the explorer,’ said Voules. ‘Can I come? Stanley refuses to see anyone from The Echo, but if he thinks I’m with you …’

  ‘No!’ blurted Lonsdale, astounded by the audacity. He thought fast. ‘We’re going to see his bead collection, so unless you think Echo
readers are interested in those …’

  ‘They prefer killers and cannibals. And man-eating dinosaurs of course – my editor was delighted with the scoop on those. As it came from Miss Friederichs, I owe her a tip in return, which is why I’m here, but she won’t come out to get it.’

  ‘Tell me instead,’ said Lonsdale.

  Voules rubbed his chin, then nodded. ‘Just make sure you tell her it came from me, so she knows we’re even – no claiming you found this out for yourself. It’s about the Garraway Club – your maid Sybil overheard that you think Señor d’Atte might know something about the murders.’

  ‘She eavesdropped on me?’ demanded Lonsdale indignantly.

  ‘Not deliberately,’ lied Voules. ‘However, it’s a good thing she did, because she told me, and I can save you a lot of trouble. D’Atte fancies himself a singer and was warbling in the chorus of Iolanthe when Tait, Bowyer and Gurney were killed.’

  Lonsdale stared at him. ‘How do you know?’

  Voules held out a crumpled programme. ‘Because here’s his name in black and white, and he lives for opera, so you can be sure he was there. You can check with the rest of the cast, but you’ll find I’m right – he has alibis for three of the murders. You should believe what you read in The Echo, Lonsdale. The cannibals are the culprits.’

  It was only a mile or so to the rooms that Stanley rented at 30 Sackville Street in Piccadilly, so Lonsdale and Hulda walked there. It was in a three-storey terraced house of brown brick with a slate roof. Lonsdale knocked on a shiny black door that stood imposingly between a pair of Doric pilasters and was surprised when Stanley himself opened it. The world-famous explorer looked more distinguished in life than in his promotional photographs, his closely cropped, greying hair offsetting his lined, deeply tanned face.

  While it was an honour to meet him, Lonsdale was wary. The explorer had a reputation for surliness, and he and Hulda would not be the first reporters to be sent away with insults ringing in their ears. But he need not have worried, as Stanley was gracious, polite and helpful.