‘But you said we were going to watch out for each other,’ objected Hulda. ‘How can we do that if we separate?’
‘We’ve no choice. Besides, Ingram might react badly if he sees you – you got a full guided tour of The Illustrated London News premises under false pretences.’
The two hansoms clattered up Charing Cross Road and then turned west into Oxford Street. What not long before had been mostly residential was now full of shops, with drapers, furniture-sellers, jewellers, and haberdasheries being joined by new stores such as John Lewis. Street vendors still did a roaring trade outside them, although Hulda and Lonsdale barely noticed the glittery Christmas theme of the wares, so intent were they on the vehicle in front. Ingram’s carriage turned right at Marble Arch and began heading up Edgware Road.
‘They could be going to Paddington,’ said Hulda. ‘To catch a train, perhaps.’
But Ingram passed Praed Street and Harrow Road and continued on.
‘Lord’s Cricket Ground!’ exclaimed Lonsdale suddenly. ‘Of course! Hornby was one of Lancashire’s stars this year, and The Illustrated London News ran a number of stories about his victories, one of which was by nine wickets over Middlesex – at Lord’s.’
Hulda regarded him askance. ‘You think they’re going to watch a cricket match?’
‘It’s winter – Lord’s will be closed. But any groundskeeper minding the place won’t mind Hornby popping in and out. Lord’s will be safe, comfortable and deserted – the perfect place to secure the Khoikhoi.’
Hulda was disgusted with herself. ‘If I’d remembered that cricket is a summer sport, I might have worked all this out days ago!’
When they reached the corner of St John’s Wood Road and Hamilton Terrace, Lonsdale asked the driver to stop. He clambered out, paid double what he had promised, and asked him to take Hulda to Scotland Yard as fast as possible.
‘I’m not happy with this,’ said Hulda, while the gleeful driver counted his money. ‘It might’ve been Ingram who hired the thugs who tried to push us into the moving traffic. We should send the driver for the police and go inside the cricket ground together.’
‘But we need Peters,’ argued Lonsdale. ‘Only you can make sure he comes and not Wells. Because if Wells turns up, we’ll be in trouble for certain.’
‘And what if Peters can’t get away?’ she snapped angrily. ‘He’s being watched, too.’
‘Don’t underestimate him,’ said Lonsdale. ‘He’ll find a way. Now, lend me your gun.’
Hulda reached for it, then scrabbled about in consternation. ‘It’s gone! My pocket is ripped – those ruffians must’ve torn it when they manhandled me and the gun fell out. Damn! I was fond of that weapon!’
And Lonsdale was fond of his life, which might have been better protected with a firearm to hand, especially as he knew Roth had one.
Eager to please, the hansom driver raced away as fast as his horse could run, leaving Lonsdale hoping Hulda would arrive at Scotland Yard in one piece. When they were out of sight, he hurried down St John’s Wood Road, where he peered around the corner. Ingram and Hornby had alighted and were removing the box from the floor of their hansom. Hornby staggered as he took its weight.
Ingram looked around carefully, then took a key from his pocket and opened a door in the wall that ran around the perimeter. He held it open for Hornby, then glanced around again before following him through and closing it behind them.
Lonsdale inched forward but was not surprised to discover the door had been relocked. He looked up at the wall, which was too high to scale, especially in broad daylight, when he would be seen. He began to trot along it, looking for weaknesses, and found it in an area of wooden fencing at the back. There was a small hole in the bottom, which he suspected had been made by boys who wanted to see their heroes play but could not afford the entrance fee.
It was a tight squeeze, and he ripped his coat on a jagged piece of wood, but he was through eventually. He stood and looked around him.
He was in a scrubby area of dead ground, which was obviously designated for development at some point in the future. Ahead lay the pitch in all its glory, the wicket swathed in tarpaulins to protect it from the winter weather. Beyond that was the pavilion, an ornate building with iron pillars and balustrades. It had two floors, the upper of which was covered by canvas tenting. The lower part contained facilities for the cricketers and their wealthier supporters – changing rooms, dining hall, bars and so forth. In front of the pavilion was permanent seating in the form of benches.
Feeling horribly exposed, Lonsdale padded around the ground, expecting at any moment to hear the yell that would tell him he had been spotted. But no shout came, and he reached the pavilion breathing hard, heart pounding. He saw the door at the front had been left ajar, so he eased towards it, wincing when the wooden steps creaked under his weight. He pushed it open and peered inside.
It was more than twelve years since he had last been to the home of the Middlesex County Cricket Club – he had been playing for Cambridge University at the time. It had changed in the interim and boasted a handsome hallway with a glass case to exhibit the trophies and honours Middlesex had won. Also displayed were the historic memorabilia of the Marylebone Cricket Club, the owners of Lord’s, who were responsible for the Laws of Cricket.
In another case were relics highlighting the University Match, first held there in 1827. He experienced a pang of nostalgia as he saw the ball his teammate Frank Cobden had used in 1870. With Oxford needing only three runs to win, Cobden had taken a hat-trick: in three balls one of the Oxford batters had been caught out and the last two bowled, giving Cambridge the win.
He was jerked out of his reverie by voices. They were coming from a small side room, which – fortunately for him – overlooked the back rather than the field side, or he would have been seen when he was outside. Then he detected a smell – the same one as at Roth’s home. The door was ajar, and he looked through it to see a comfortably furnished dining room.
Ingram had his back to the door, while Hornby had deposited the chest on the floor and was busy unfastening it. Watching him was Roth, looking even more fraught than when Lonsdale had last seen him, and three Africans – two men and a woman. The Africans wore bulky woollen coats, although the woman had a beaded band around her head that Lonsdale recognized as a type favoured by migrant pastoralists in the Cape Colony. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Lord’s in the winter was indeed the perfect place to hide fugitives.
‘Bush tea,’ declared Hornby, brandishing a packet. ‘Not easy to buy here, but one advantage of being a sporting hero is that people like to please me. An old Boer friend had a stash, and happily gave me some when I expressed a fondness for it.’
‘It stinks,’ said Ingram, wrinkling his nose as the Africans greeted Hornby’s gift with cries of delight. ‘And how did the Kumu acquire a taste for Southern African tea anyway?’
Lonsdale grimaced. Of course! He should have recognized the smell of bush tea at once and was disgusted that he had allowed himself to believe it came from Dickerson’s collections. If he had taken the time to analyse the clues that were right under his nose, he might have had answers a lot sooner. He wondered how long it would take Hulda to fetch Peters – a round journey of about six miles – and hoped Ingram would enjoy a lengthy session with the people he had hidden so slyly. The best scenario would be for Peters to arrive when all six were there together, so Ingram could not deny his involvement. In the interim, all Lonsdale could do was eavesdrop on what was being said.
‘Thank you for the supplies,’ Roth was saying to Ingram. ‘But we won’t detain you.’
Ingram sat, much to Roth’s obvious consternation. ‘Give us a moment to breathe, will you? We came all the way out here with your victuals, so the least you can do is give us a few minutes of your time.’ He turned to the Africans. ‘Or rather, of theirs.’
‘They’re tired,’ said Roth quickly. ‘They don’t want to talk today. Besides, my Komo
isn’t good enough to translate for you yet. Give me another week, and I’ll be much better.’
Lonsdale listened with interest. Roth was presenting the Africans as hailing from the Congo. Did that mean Ingram was an unwitting foil in the deception?
Ingram was exasperated. ‘Another week? I can’t keep these people here at my expense indefinitely. It’s time to show a little good faith by letting me ask them a few questions. I’m tired of you taking my help but giving me nothing in return.’
‘It’s becoming urgent, you see,’ Hornby explained, more kindly. ‘If he doesn’t publish soon, Stead will pre-empt him, and The Pall Mall Gazette will be credited with exposing the evils of human zoos. We know for a fact that Stead sent his best reporters to hunt the Kumu down, because Voules told us – we hired him to spy on them for us.’
So that was why The Echo man had been so annoyingly persistent, mused Lonsdale. It was not just the prospect of stories to steal, but because he was being paid to do it. It also explained why Ingram had been so alarmed when Hulda told him The Echo had planted a spy on his premises – he knew such things happened, because he did it himself. Absently, Lonsdale wondered what The Echo’s editor would think of Voules accepting money from a rival paper, and was sure he would be dismissed if it ever came to light.
Roth was looking panicky. ‘But the professor wanted … he told me to …’ He trailed off, then spoke in a miserable wail. ‘Oh, God! I don’t know what to do! I wish Dickerson was still here to tell me. I should never have moved them from the museum!’
Lonsdale congratulated himself on being right about one thing: Roth was not the killer, because Dickerson’s death had landed him in an awkward predicament.
‘Calm down!’ ordered Ingram sternly. ‘You did the right thing. When Dickerson went to Devon, and left you to care for these cannibals alone, you were wise to take them home – a place safe from the unwanted attentions of other scientists.’
‘Owen and Flower,’ whispered Roth. ‘One frightened them with his bristling hostility, while the other kept asking them about the Congo. The professor could repel them, but I …’
‘Taking them home saved them from being arrested for murder,’ put in Hornby comfortingly. ‘Everyone thinks they killed the professor. We’re the only ones who know they didn’t.’
‘No, they didn’t,’ averred Roth. ‘They left the basement before he was killed, and they haven’t been back since. Yet I can’t stop thinking that if they had been there, he’d still be alive – I’m sure he went down there looking for them, and I keep thinking how worried he must’ve been when he found them gone.’
‘Don’t dwell on it,’ advised Hornby gently. ‘It’ll do no good.’
‘But who came to your rescue?’ asked Ingram haughtily. ‘Me! When people began to visit your home, and you were all living in terror, I brought you here.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Roth tiredly. ‘You did.’
‘So it’s payback time,’ Ingram went on. ‘My blistering exposé of human zoos is ready. All I need is an interview with some real victims and it can go in the next edition.’
‘Can’t you do it without them?’ asked Roth, glancing at the Africans, who were following the discussion more closely than their alleged lack of English should have allowed. ‘They don’t want to be famous.’
‘They’re already famous,’ retorted Ingram. ‘The Echo saw to that. And no, I can’t do it without them, as I need the personal touch that only they can provide – I want my readers to see them as real people with names, hopes, and fears.’
‘He aims to create such a stir that the issue of human zoos will be raised in Parliament,’ elaborated Hornby. ‘It could save hundreds of people from being paraded about like animals. This is important, Roth.’
‘I know,’ said Roth wretchedly. ‘And I will help, but not today – Khade isn’t well. If she’s better tomorrow, we’ll do it then.’
The woman obligingly put her hand to her stomach.
‘Do I have your word?’ asked Ingram, clearly displeased but sensing that was the best he was likely to get. ‘My paper has a much bigger circulation than Stead’s, and if he publishes first, not only will he get all the credit, but it will weaken the impact of my work. It must go in the next edition.’
‘Come tomorrow,’ said Roth miserably. ‘Khade should feel better by then.’
‘We brought all her favourites,’ said Hornby, nodding towards the box. ‘Fresh scones, strawberry jam, poacher’s relish and Cornish fairings. They should help.’
Business completed, he and Ingram aimed for the door, Ingram full of exasperated disappointment. Lonsdale wondered what to do. Prevent them from leaving, so all six would be there when Peters arrived? Or let them go, as neither would be difficult to find later? Common sense prevailed. Lonsdale was alone, and it was arrogant to think he could prevail against five men and a woman, four of whom he was about to expose as fraudsters. Besides, it was now clear that Ingram’s only ‘crimes’ were to help four frightened people and to compete with Stead.
He ducked behind a cabinet full of memorabilia and let Ingram and Hornby hurry past unchallenged.
Minutes ticked past. Ingram and Hornby had gone, locking the door behind them. The African men began to unpack the chest, while Roth slumped in a chair with his head in his hands. Khade stood next to him, talking in a low voice. Lonsdale slipped out of his hiding place and went to eavesdrop again.
‘It’s time for us all to leave,’ she was saying in perfect but accented English. ‘You’ve done your best, but once the professor was murdered – well, the game was up. We should’ve come clean immediately, rather than try to wriggle out of the mess we made for ourselves.’
‘Leave and go where?’ croaked Roth in despair. ‘Half the country is looking for you, convinced that you’re killers. At least here you’re safe.’
‘But only until tomorrow,’ said Khade. ‘Without the professor, we’ll be exposed as frauds in moments. Mr Ingram knows a lot about the Kumu – we know next to nothing.’
Lonsdale felt he had heard enough. He sensed the Africans were not violent people, and while he knew Roth had a gun, he trusted his friend would not shoot him. He pushed open the door and stepped inside. All four people gaped at him in horror, then Roth leapt to his feet and fumbled for his firearm. He pulled it out and held it in a hand that shook so badly he was in serious danger of shooting someone by accident.
‘Put it down,’ ordered Lonsdale. ‘I know you won’t—’
The sound of the weapon discharging was shockingly loud. Lonsdale and the Africans flinched, then stared at Roth in astonishment.
‘I’m sorry, Alec,’ whispered Roth unsteadily, ‘but I can’t let you turn us in. The professor would haunt me forever. It was the last thing he said to me – to look after his friends.’
‘I know they didn’t kill him.’ Lonsdale raised his hands to show he meant no harm. ‘I heard what was said just now – that you took them from the museum before he died—’
‘I begged him not to go to Devon,’ interrupted Roth bitterly; Lonsdale winced as the gun wobbled precariously. ‘I was terrified that Owen would find out what we … so I took Khade and the others home. It was only supposed to be for one or two days …’
‘But Dickerson failed to reappear,’ prompted Lonsdale. ‘And you were stuck.’
Roth nodded miserably. ‘I kept thinking he’d come back, but he never did. Then Owen and Flowers realized they’d gone and ordered a search.’
‘Which you conducted, but not very carefully, because you knew they weren’t there,’ surmised Lonsdale. ‘And that’s why Dickerson’s body remained undiscovered for so long – if anyone else had been doing the looking, Dickerson would’ve been found.’
Tears welled in Roth’s eyes. ‘I can’t tell you how dreadful that makes me feel.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Lonsdale sympathetically. ‘Now put down the gun and—’
‘No!’ The firearm trembled dangerously again. ‘You don’t understan
d what’s at stake.’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Lonsdale, forcing himself not to cower. ‘A fraud against the Natural History Museum and the British public. Your friends are Khoikhoi, not Kumu, which is why they didn’t speak when Ingram was here, and why they’ve remained silent since I arrived, although they do know English – I heard Khade talking to you.’
There was a moment when Lonsdale thought they would deny it, but Roth sagged in defeat. ‘How did you guess?’ he asked weakly.
‘You left a lot of clues,’ explained Lonsdale, hoping Hulda would arrive before Roth decided his only option was to shoot him. He had been certain Roth would not harm him, but now he saw that his friend had more important claims on his loyalty.
‘I did?’ Roth looked trapped and desperate. ‘What clues?’
Lonsdale began to list them. ‘Saying Khoikhoi when you meant Kumu; claiming your “cannibals” liked cricket, when they arrived too late in the season to have developed a feel for it; the scent of bush tea in your house, which is a Southern African specialty; the broken Cape Colony headrest you left in your rooms—’
‘None of that proves we aren’t Kumu,’ said Khade quietly.
‘It does when it’s all added together,’ countered Lonsdale. ‘It suggests you hail from a place familiar with British customs, which the Congo isn’t.’
Roth sat heavily in a chair, although he continued to point the gun at Lonsdale. ‘It was the professor’s idea. It would have worked if he’d been here to see it through. But now I don’t know what to do … it’s all such an unholy muddle!’
‘I can see that,’ said Lonsdale. ‘So how did Ingram get involved?’
‘The professor introduced us to Mr Hornby,’ explained Khade, ‘because he’s one of our sporting heroes. Gallantly, Mr Hornby said he would be at our service if there was ever anything he could do.’
‘So I went to him because once the professor was dead I had no one else,’ said Roth. ‘Unfortunately, his brother-in-law just happened to be mounting a campaign against human zoos, and Hornby insisted that we take him into our confidence, too.’
Watchers of the Dead Page 22