Watchers of the Dead

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘I thought he’d be wearing a pith helmet,’ whispered Hulda, as they followed him into a pleasantly appointed sitting room that contained not a single item from his travels and looked more like the domain of an elderly maiden aunt than a man in his prime.

  ‘I understand you want information about the Congo,’ said Stanley, once they were settled in chintz chairs with cups of tea so delicate that Lonsdale was almost afraid to pick his up.

  ‘The Kumu,’ said Hulda. ‘The people who—’

  ‘I hope you haven’t solicited Francis Galton’s opinion,’ interrupted Stanley haughtily, ‘because that man is an ass. He thinks he knows more about central Africa than Livingstone or me, even though he’s never been near the source of the Nile or the headwaters of the Lualaba. His theories are wild, absurd, and childish. I can’t abide the fellow.’

  ‘He is an acquired taste,’ agreed Hulda, while Lonsdale recalled that Galton had said much the same about Stanley. ‘And his book The Art of Travel—’

  ‘Is rubbish!’ spat Stanley. ‘Drivel, penned by a man who never ventures farther than the armchair at his club.’

  ‘Speaking of clubs,’ said Lonsdale, ‘are you a member of the Garraway Club or a society named the Watchers?’

  Stanley sniffed. ‘I don’t have time for clubs, no matter how much they beg me to join. Besides, I was friends with Robert Barkley Shaw, who explored the Pamirs and Chinese Turkestan. He joined the Watchers and look what happened to him.’

  Hulda and Lonsdale exchanged an alarmed glance. ‘What?’

  ‘He was murdered in Whitechapel a month or so ago,’ replied Stanley. ‘It was blamed on robbers, but I know a panga wound when I see one, and I can tell you that Shaw wasn’t killed by some common criminal.’

  ‘Was he a member of the Garraway?’ asked Lonsdale keenly.

  ‘I believe so. However, he was certainly a Watcher. But why do you ask? Is there a connection between the two?’

  Hulda nodded. ‘It seems that all Watchers are members of the Garraway, but not all members of the Garraway are Watchers – the Watchers comprise a select few. Unfortunately, we have no idea what this society does or why specific people join it.’

  ‘Shaw told me that Watchers are dedicated to making the world a better place, but without self-serving fanfares. Their number includes politicians, lawyers, churchmen, bankers, explorers, publishers, writers, and the landed gentry, all with one common goal.’

  ‘To do good?’ asked Hulda.

  Stanley nodded. ‘Which is why they call themselves the Watchers – they see themselves as the fallen angels, who mind the affairs of men with loving eyes.’

  ‘And yet they aim to do something terrible on Christmas Eve,’ said Hulda, ‘which doesn’t sound very angelic to me.’

  Stanley shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time something good turned to something bad because fanatics or lunatics have become involved. However, Shaw was a decent fellow. He was determined to expose the desperate plight of London’s poor, and he asked me to join the Watchers because he thought I could help the natives in the Congo.’

  ‘But you declined his invitation?’ asked Hulda.

  ‘The people of the Congo don’t need my help, because King Leopold of the Belgians has vowed to keep them under his beneficent eye. He promises they’ll be much better off once he’s opened up their country to commerce.’

  ‘Right,’ said Lonsdale, not sure they would, although Leopold would certainly grow fat on the proceeds. ‘Have you ever visited the Garraway?’

  ‘Once – I went there to be photographed by that sly dog James Burnside. I wore the clothes I used for crossing Africa, and looked very handsome, but he refused to let me have the picture until I paid him. What kind of gentleman demands payment on delivery? I told him I’d send the remittance in due course, but he declined to believe me.’

  ‘Why was Shaw in Whitechapel?’ asked Hulda, changing the topic. ‘Did he live there?’

  Stanley laughed. ‘Of course not! It’s one of the meanest, roughest areas of London – more dangerous than the deepest Congo. He was there to research poverty. The police said he was killed during a robbery, but I was called to identify his body, and I saw the panga wounds.’

  ‘Did you tell the police?’

  ‘Of course, but they didn’t believe me. Some incompetent oaf named Wells had the effrontery to pat my arm and advise me to spend less time in the sun.’

  Lonsdale and Hulda exchanged another glance. So, the cover-up in which Wells was instrumental had started before Haldane was killed, and the death toll – that they knew of – was now six. They quizzed Stanley more about Shaw, but he could not tell them if a piece of grass had been found with the body, and only recommended that they ask the police.

  ‘The Kumu,’ said Lonsdale, eventually recalling why Stead had sent them in the first place. ‘They were brought to London to appear in a display at the Natural History Museum.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been reading about your concerns for them in The Pall Mall Gazette. You should’ve come to me earlier, because I can tell you a lot about the Kumu.’

  ‘Such as where they might be hiding?’ asked Hulda eagerly.

  ‘No, but I can say that no Kumu would have dispatched Dickerson and left him uneaten. They would have been afraid his angry spirit would return to haunt them. If he was intact, then the Kumu are innocent.’

  ‘Have you mentioned this to anyone else?’

  ‘Inspector Wells, but, again, he declined to listen.’

  ‘So you’re sure the Kumu didn’t kill Dickerson,’ pressed Lonsdale, to be certain.

  ‘Completely,’ replied Stanley firmly. ‘However, that doesn’t exonerate the natives who were in Dickerson’s care – the ones who went missing after his murder. I refer to the people who claim to be Kumu, but who are nothing of the kind.’

  ‘What?’ asked Lonsdale warily. ‘How do you—’

  ‘Dickerson visited me several times and pumped me for information,’ explained Stanley. ‘Information that would have been easily obtained from his guests, if they were who they purported to be. However, his questions made it obvious that he’d never met a real Kumu.’

  ‘So who did he have in the museum’s basement?’ asked Lonsdale.

  Stanley shrugged. ‘Some other African tribal people, I imagine.’

  Suddenly, Lonsdale had a vivid memory of Roth saying Khoikhoi when he had meant Kumu. Had it been an innocent slip of the tongue, because he had been going through the Khoikhoi part of the professor’s collection? Or had the slip come because Stanley was right, and Dickerson’s ‘Kumu’ were nothing of the kind?

  ‘Could he have hired some Khoikhoi instead?’ he asked.

  Stanley nodded. ‘They’d certainly be easier to recruit than any Congolese, who are difficult to reach and suspicious of foreigners.’

  ‘So he may have been staging a massive hoax?’ asked Lonsdale, shocked. ‘Do you think Owen and the other museum officials knew?’

  ‘I doubt it. Of course, most visitors wouldn’t know the difference between a Kumu and a Khoikhoi anyway, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter.’

  But Lonsdale rather thought it did. ‘Can you think of anything that may help us find them? Even if they aren’t Kumu, they’re still in danger.’

  ‘I can’t, I’m afraid, but try William Ingram of The Illustrated London News. He was with Dickerson on several of his visits here. He was going to write something about the Kumu and their Congo home. Perhaps he can suggest a way forward.’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to him,’ said Lonsdale glumly. ‘He says he can’t.’

  ‘Then press him harder,’ advised Stanley, ‘because I was under the impression that he knows a lot more about the Kumu than your average fellow.’

  Lonsdale stood to leave, filled with the sense that a solution – or part of one at least – might be to hand at last. So Stead had been right to send him and Hulda to interview the explorer. Who would have thought it?

  It was raining as Lons
dale and Hulda hurried down the street to Piccadilly, where they hoped to flag down a carriage to take them to the offices of The Illustrated London News on the Strand. Lonsdale walked fast, his energies renewed with the prospect of answers.

  ‘We learned a lot from him,’ panted Hulda, struggling to keep up in her elegantly heeled boots.

  ‘Most important of which is that there’s yet another victim,’ said Lonsdale. ‘How odd that no one else has mentioned Shaw – a member of the Garraway and a Watcher. We should ask Peters how many other sudden deaths have been allocated to Wells, because there may be a lot more than six murdered men.’

  ‘I don’t like the fact that Wells ignored what Stanley told him about the Kumu,’ said Hulda.

  ‘Him or his paymaster,’ said Lonsdale. ‘We know from Peters that Wells is Commissioner Henderson’s creature, but I rather think this conspiracy of inactivity goes higher.’ He looked around for a free hansom, but the rain meant every one was occupied. ‘It’ll be quicker to walk than wait – we can do it in a quarter of an hour. Come on.’

  He set off before Hulda could point out that a mile in his sturdy shoes and sensible overcoat was not the same as one in her fashionable boots and non-waterproof wrap.

  ‘So, Dickerson’s Kumu are likely not Kumu at all,’ he said as they went. ‘Does that mean they did kill him and then fled the scene of their crime?’

  ‘It might, but that leaves the question of why they dispatched the other victims,’ replied Hulda. ‘Personally, I suspect their only crime is one of dishonesty, committed in cahoots with Dickerson and your friend Roth. It would certainly explain why he’s been so furtive.’

  Lonsdale agreed. ‘He might have gone along with the deception because Dickerson asked him. There was genuine affection between them – like a father and son – and men do things for friendship …’

  ‘So what do we know about the false Kumu? Are they cannibals or just some random tribesmen rounded up because they were available?’

  ‘We won’t know until we ask them. However, we have been told that they enjoy three very English activities – tea rooms, cricket and light opera.’

  Hulda sniffed. ‘I’ve lived here for years, and I don’t understand cricket or light opera. The formality of tea rooms is also something that we foreigners find curious.’

  Lonsdale stared at her. ‘You’re right! Cricket is complicated, and I don’t see anyone acquiring an instant taste for it, especially as our false Kumu arrived in late summer – which Roth told us they did.’

  Hulda frowned. ‘What does that matter?’

  ‘Cricket is a summer game. They can’t have seen many matches before the season ended. And you’re right about Gilbert and Sullivan, too – it’s peculiarly British, and strangers don’t suddenly gain an understanding of it.’

  ‘Meaning?’ demanded Hulda.

  ‘Meaning that our false Kumu have probably lived in a British culture for some time, perhaps even their whole lives. And there are the beef sandwiches to consider.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Alice Barnett provided some when they visited her at the Savoy Theatre, but they refused to eat them, and I was under the impression that they considered them taboo. There’s no avoidance of beef in most African societies, but some Cape Colony people honour their livestock – cattle, sheep and goats – and only eat them on ritual occasions.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Hulda, when he paused, collecting his thoughts.

  ‘In some of these tribal groups, cattle are called “God with a wet nose”, and classified not as animals but as a spiritual bridge between an individual and his ancestors. So a beef sandwich would be both offensive and forbidden.’

  ‘You and Stanley mentioned Khoikhoi …’

  ‘You may have heard them called Hottentots, but they call themselves Khoikhoi. Although they’re traditionally nomadic, they’ve interacted extensively with British settlers in Southern Africa – where cricket is played, tea enjoyed, and Gilbert and Sullivan performed.’

  ‘So Dickerson’s Kumu from the Congo are actually Khoikhoi from Southern Africa?’

  Lonsdale nodded slowly. ‘It’s beginning to make sense at last! If they were imposters, it explains why he kept them in the basement – to prevent other ethnographers from talking to them and seeing through the deception.’

  ‘I did think it was an odd place to house people,’ mused Hulda. ‘Roth said it was because it was warm, but some parts were actually very cold.’

  ‘Dickerson escorted them on all their excursions to prevent the ruse being exposed, and he doubtless aimed to be on hand at the exhibition to field awkward questions. And there’s their English, of course.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘I asked Roth if they spoke it, and he said no. Neither he nor Professor Dickerson knew Komo, so how would they have communicated the intricacies of Gilbert and Sullivan, let alone cricket?’

  ‘But English is spoken in the Cape Colony?’

  ‘Precisely! And Roth did let slip at one point that Dickerson’s main speciality was Southern Africa. Moreover, I saw a broken Cape Colony headrest in Roth’s room, left when he fled. I wondered if he’d been using it to remind him of happier times, but it wasn’t him – it was the Khoikhoi. They’d been sharing his rooms! They were almost certainly there when we visited the first time. No wonder he was edgy!’

  Lonsdale and Hulda reached the Strand, which was unusually busy with pedestrians, and he was aware of men pressing in on him and Hulda from both sides. His mind was so full of Roth’s antics that by the time he realized something was amiss, it was nearly too late. The men – five of them – began to crowd him and Hulda towards the edge of the pavement. Then he saw a hand stretch towards her, ready to push her into the path of an oncoming omnibus. He reacted fast, knocking it down and swinging a punch at the culprit’s jaw.

  The man howled, which had the effect of encouraging his friends to speed up their murderous assault. Lonsdale was pushed so hard that he stumbled off the kerb, where a cart missed him by the merest fraction. It might have ended badly, but Hulda pulled out a gun and levelled it at the man nearest to her.

  ‘Christ!’ he gulped and took to his heels.

  His companions backed away as Hulda whipped around with the weapon, then turned and ran. Lonsdale set off after them, aiming to catch one and demand answers. The would-be assassins jigged across the Strand, darting in front of a horse-drawn tram with reckless disregard for their safety. Lonsdale was forced to wait for it to lumber past, by which time they had disappeared down an alley. Lonsdale raced down it, but there was no sign of them. Defeated, he returned to Hulda, who had replaced the gun inside her coat, and was waiting none too patiently for him.

  ‘Who were they?’ she demanded.

  ‘Hirelings, probably,’ replied Lonsdale. ‘And I’m not sure they could’ve told us anything even if I had managed to catch one. They weren’t very competent – not like the killer himself. Still, we must have him worried, or he wouldn’t have bothered.’

  ‘At least he didn’t arm them with pangas,’ she remarked, but her voice shook, so he put his arm around her. He expected her to pull away, but she seemed glad of the contact, so they stood there for a moment.

  ‘We need to take extra care from now on,’ he said eventually. ‘Watch out for each other. Will you move into Cleveland Square until we’ve caught him?’

  ‘I can’t live in your house!’ she exclaimed, pulling away in shock. ‘I have my reputation to consider. Besides, what would Humbage – or Anne – say about such an arrangement?’

  ‘I really don’t care,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Your life’s worth more to me than their opinions.’

  Hulda flushed and made no more objections.

  TEN

  Both Lonsdale and Hulda glanced around uneasily as they reached the offices of The Illustrated London News, half expecting another assault. Lonsdale was about to enter when it occurred to him that they needed some sort of strategy if they aimed to accuse the owner-editor of a
prestigious publishing house of being complicit in a crime. He was about to say so, when Hulda grabbed his arm and hauled him behind the hansom that had just pulled up – idly, Lonsdale noticed a large box on its floor.

  ‘Look – Ingram and his brother-in-law, the monkey,’ she hissed, as two men emerged from the building. Ingram was tall and distinguished, Hornby slight and agile, characteristics that had earned him his nickname. ‘Look at the way they’re glancing around as they walk! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more furtive pair.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Lonsdale. ‘Shall we follow them, and see where they go?’

  Ingram and Hornby began a series of zigzags that were clearly designed to throw off anyone who happened to be watching. It did not work, because Lonsdale had learned a lot about shadowing people from his experiences with Voules and Bowler Hat. The pair crossed roads, turned back on themselves, and ducked into doorways, but Lonsdale was able to keep him and Hulda out of sight until their quarry returned to the Strand and clambered into the waiting hansom – the one with the box inside it.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Hulda, watching it clatter away.

  ‘We do the same,’ said Lonsdale, risking life and limb by darting out into the road to hail another. He helped Hulda in, and offered the driver double the fare if he could follow Ingram without being seen.

  The driver was delighted by the challenge – and the reward – and set about it with alacrity.

  ‘As soon as we know where they’re going, you need to come back and contact the police,’ said Lonsdale to Hulda, glad Ingram’s carriage was not moving very fast, as he was sure their driver would have loved nothing better than a high-speed chase along London’s crowded thoroughfares. ‘I’ll keep them under surveillance until help arrives.’

  ‘And what exactly am I supposed to tell them?’ demanded Hulda. ‘That a rich man and his monkey are acting suspiciously? We need more than that to call in the cavalry!’

  ‘Not the cavalry,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Peters. He’s the only one we can trust. Tell him that Ingram is involved in something untoward. We don’t know what, but the chances are that it involves the “cannibals” – the people who may know something about Dickerson’s murder.’