Watchers of the Dead

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Stop!’ snapped Lonsdale, not about to be berated in his own home, especially in front of Hulda. Thankfully, she seemed more amused than offended by Humbage’s harangue. ‘It’s none of your business. Why are you here anyway? If it’s to see Jack, he won’t be home until late. There’s a dinner at the club.’

  ‘I’m here to see you,’ said Humbage coldly. ‘I visited Morley today, to insist you be removed from unsavoury investigations. I won’t have my good name tainted by association in the vile matters you’ve been probing – murder, cannibals, escaped lunatics. Morley was busy, so I had to be content with that madman Stead.’

  ‘You did what?’ exploded Lonsdale, realizing what Stead had meant by having an unpleasant encounter. ‘You have no right to interfere with my work!’

  ‘I have every right! Family honour is at stake. Stead tried to lecture me about the plight of “poor cannibals”, so I told him I don’t give a damn about them, and ordered him to give you respectable assignments, like horse-breeding or happenings at court.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Lonsdale, knowing the assistant editor would not appreciate being told what to do by someone like Humbage.

  ‘He gave me a sweet to eat while he considered my demands, but it transpired to be a mothball,’ replied Humbage stiffly. ‘Then he thanked me for my “valuable insights into the mindset of my class” and said he was sending you to Broadmoor tomorrow – a prison for the criminally insane. The man is as degenerate as you are!’

  ‘It’s not a prison,’ said Lonsdale. ‘It’s an asylum.’

  ‘He’s not degenerate either,’ put in Hulda, moved to defend her mentor. ‘He’s—’

  ‘I don’t care what you call it,’ interrupted Humbage, ignoring her and addressing Lonsdale. ‘I forbid you to go. What if you catch something and pass it to my daughters?’

  Lonsdale could not stop from laughing. ‘I hardly think madness is contagious!’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Humbage angrily. ‘Your brother was a perfect gentleman when I first met him, but ever since you moved into this house, he’s grown wild.’

  ‘Jack? Wild?’ echoed Lonsdale in disbelief.

  Humbage sniffed huffily. ‘He drank a whole bottle of wine, then rebuked Emelia for telling him what she thinks of you. When I hastened to her defence, he called me a meddlesome ass.’

  Lonsdale could only suppose Jack had been very drunk. Or was it that Humbage’s arrogance and snobbishness had finally proved too much even for his equanimous nature?

  ‘Here’s a note for you from Anne,’ said Humbage, handing over an envelope. He gave Hulda a look of disdain before turning back to Lonsdale. ‘Your fiancée. She’ll meet you at seven o’clock on Friday evening, when you’ll have a serious discussion about your future together. I shall be there, too.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Lonsdale between gritted teeth. ‘If we do have such a discussion, it will involve the two of us and no one else.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ blustered Humbage. ‘Now, for the last time, I order you to step away from these murders and leave the police to do their job. Disobey me at your peril.’

  He stalked past them before Lonsdale could tell him where to put his orders, but his haughty exit was spoiled by Sybil, who contrived to drop his hat, his coat and then his umbrella before eventually opening the door to let him out. As she closed it behind him, she gave Lonsdale a conspiratorial wink that made him decide to overlook her inconvenient friendship with Voules.

  ‘Well,’ said Hulda. ‘I am glad he won’t be my father-in-law.’

  TWELVE

  Lonsdale was in an agony of tension when he woke the following morning. He was sure he was wasting valuable time by going to Broadmoor, and in three days it would be Christmas Eve, when the Watchers would do something terrible and his time for investigating would run out. Peters had vowed to find the killer, but he was being watched, and it was only a matter of time before he was forced to desist – or worse, suffer Hayes’s fate. Thus Lonsdale needed answers to share with him fast, which he was sure would not happen with a visit to Broadmoor.

  He met Hulda in the morning room for a hurried breakfast. She was ready to leave, wearing flat-heeled boots and a waterproof coat that Emelia had left behind, which Sybil had suggested would be more practical for a day in the country. Then Jack appeared and said Humbage had embarrassed him the previous night by appearing at the Oxford and Cambridge Club and making a scene.

  ‘He wanted me to leave my dinner and come home to deal with you,’ he said, still tight-lipped with anger. ‘I refused. Emelia will be irked with me, but a man’s club is sacrosanct. How would he feel if I arrived at his club and began to bellow? These Palace friends of his are a bad influence.’

  ‘He wishes they were his friends,’ said Lonsdale. ‘But I suspect they find him as tiresome as we do.’

  ‘He went on to say that important people dislike you interfering with police business,’ Jack said. ‘That it creates a bad precedent when newsmen meddle with the forces of law and order.’

  ‘What “important people”?’ demanded Lonsdale. ‘The courtiers he fawns over? Or does he mean himself, lest he’s tainted by his association with someone who wants justice for the victims of a ruthless killer?’

  While they had been talking, Hulda had gone to the mantelpiece, where she looked pointedly at the clock, reminding Lonsdale that they had a train to catch. Then she saw what was lying next to it.

  ‘Is this the dinosaur claw?’ she asked, and regarded him accusingly. ‘The one you promised to donate to the Natural History Museum?’

  ‘I will,’ said Lonsdale, and put it in his pocket, although he knew there would be no time to do it that day. ‘The next time we pass.’

  Despite Hulda agitating about the time, they were still too early for the train, so Lonsdale suggested stopping at Burnside’s lodgings en route to Paddington Station. He wanted to ask the photographer about what was happening at the Garraway that necessitated Roth and Carlingford carrying guns, and was sure Burnside would help him – if he could be cornered away from the club’s malign influences.

  But Burnside was out, and his landlady, who answered the door, said he had not been home for several days.

  ‘He often sleeps at his club,’ she explained. ‘They keep him busy there, but he doesn’t mind. He’s meeting people – rich people – whom he hopes will give him commissions in the future.’

  ‘Does he talk about the club at all?’ fished Hulda.

  ‘All the time! He loves it, and often tells me about the wealthy and influential Liberals he encounters there. He is sure that being a member will change his life for the better.’

  ‘Has he ever mentioned a group called the Watchers?’ persisted Hulda.

  Lonsdale had already asked Burnside this, and was sure he had been telling the truth when he denied any knowledge about it.

  ‘Once,’ replied the landlady, to Lonsdale’s abject surprise – he could not look at Hulda, unwilling to see her gloat. ‘He was elected to it at the end of last month.’

  ‘What did he say exactly?’ demanded Hulda urgently.

  ‘That it was the proudest moment of his life, and he aims to be worthy of it.’ The landlady’s hands flew to her mouth in sudden horror. ‘But he asked me not to tell anyone and now I’ve betrayed his confidence!’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Hulda carelessly. ‘I’m sure he’ll forgive you.’

  Lonsdale was sure he would not, as the slip revealed him as a man who lied with considerable ease. The landlady could be persuaded to say no more, so they went on their way. Hulda was silent until they turned the corner, then she began to crow.

  ‘I knew it! Burnside is a Watcher and is deeply involved in this business. I told you there was something odd about the way he keeps appearing. Voules was spying on us for Ingram, but Burnside has been monitoring you for his masters at the Garraway – his Watcher masters.’

  ‘I’ll corner him when we get back tonight,’ said Lonsdale, disgusted with hims
elf for being so easily duped.

  ‘We both will,’ determined Hulda. ‘I don’t care about their asinine “No Ladies” policy. Let them keep me out if they dare!’

  The train was ready to depart when Lonsdale and Hulda arrived at the station. They raced towards it and leapt aboard just as it began to inch away. It gathered up speed, and Lonsdale paced in the corridor, wanting the journey to be over as quickly as possible. Ten minutes later, it stopped and sat for so long that, in an agony of exasperation, Lonsdale went to find the guard.

  ‘Mud on the track,’ replied the guard unapologetically. ‘An act of God, sir.’

  Lonsdale did not believe him, but there was nothing he and Hulda could do except wait and fume. They discussed the case for a while, but then two men in suits came to sit in their carriage, and they fell silent by mutual consent. The men did not look like Garraway spies, but there was no point in being careless.

  The train creaked forward eventually, crawling with infuriating slowness along the Great Western main line through the suburban sprawl around Ealing. After that they came to open countryside, and the gently rolling fields west of the stinking metropolis that was London.

  ‘I’m never travelling by train again,’ vowed Lonsdale, as they alighted in Reading nearly two hours late. ‘I don’t believe there was mud on the track at the start of the journey or “trespassing cows” at the end – especially as that was the excuse used to explain the dismal service to Surrey on Tuesday. Either loose cattle are the official pretext of the week, or farmers have suddenly become very careless.’

  They crossed to the North Downs Line, where they caught the connection to Wellington College Station on the outskirts of Crowthorne, passing through the new development of Winnersh and the historic market town of Wokingham. It was drizzling, and Lonsdale feared another long traipse through the rain, but Crowthorne was more civilized than West Wickham, and they were able to hire a pony and trap.

  Once they were clattering along a long, straight road known as Duke’s Ride, sure the driver could not hear them through the thick woollen scarf that was wrapped around his head, Hulda began to talk about the case.

  ‘So who’s on our list of suspects, now that the cannibals and Roth are exonerated?’

  ‘We never had a list,’ said Lonsdale tiredly. ‘All we can say is that certain people are involved in whatever’s unfolding at the Garraway, but we don’t know how: Burnside, Lord Carlingford, Fleetwood-Pelham, others we don’t know about …’

  ‘Humbage,’ said Hulda soberly. ‘Because I’m suspicious about him constantly ordering you to abandon your enquiries. I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s true.’

  ‘Humbage is a stuffy old parvenu, but he’s not a killer. Perhaps we should look more closely at Commissioner Henderson – he’s the one who appointed the Metropolitan Police’s least able detective to investigate the murders.’

  ‘And then there’s Maclean. Perhaps Stead was right to send us here, because the murders did begin shortly after his escape. So let’s hope we get some answers at this place, because I’m not sure how well we’ll fare at the Garraway.’

  Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum was imposing and rather frightening. A giant complex encompassing fifty-three acres within its secure area, its entrance was through giant metal gates housed between two massive rectangular towers. There was a reception room at the front, where Lonsdale and Hulda were startled to hear they were expected.

  ‘Mr Morley arranged an appointment for you with Medical Superintendent Orange, but that was for yesterday,’ explained the warden, consulting a ledger with a grimy finger. ‘Mr Orange is busy today, but I’ll get Chaplain Ashe to have a word with you instead. We don’t normally bend the rules, but seeing as it’s for Mr Morley …’

  ‘You know him?’ asked Hulda, startled.

  The man beamed. ‘He said kind things about us in his report to Prime Minister Gladstone earlier in the year.’

  He opened the door, and another guard came to escort them through a series of grim little rooms. Each had doors that had to be unlocked and relocked behind them, and the guard seemed to take delight in slamming them as hard as he could, so the sound reverberated unpleasantly. Lonsdale remembered how Roth had described the visit he had made with Dickerson – that the place stank of cabbage, dirty feet and despair. Roth was right.

  Fortunately, the chaplain did not keep them waiting long, for which Lonsdale was grateful. Not only did he resent the loss of his time, but he hated the closed doors, the grimy grey walls, and the babble and shriek of disturbed minds. When Ashe – a small, neat man with a black moustache – arrived, Lonsdale began to ask his questions with uncharacteristic briskness.

  ‘You were going to donate some artefacts to the Natural History Museum,’ he began. ‘Professor Dickerson and Timothy Roth came here to talk to you about them.’

  Ashe nodded. ‘But Dickerson said they already had plenty of Ashanti spears, and recommended I give mine to another museum instead. His assistant then became rather unwell, so I escorted him outside. When I got back, the professor had managed to inveigle his way into the medical superintendent’s office.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Lonsdale keenly. ‘What did they talk about?’

  ‘Prisoner welfare. Afterwards, Orange said he’d found the discussion helpful.’

  And had written to say so, thought Lonsdale, recalling the letter he and Hulda had found in Dickerson’s home. Hulda quizzed Ashe about Dickerson a while longer, then brought the conversation around to Maclean.

  ‘How did he escape?’ she asked. ‘This place seems secure.’

  ‘It is secure, and we’ve no idea how he managed it. All we can think is that one of his visitors must’ve helped.’

  ‘What visitors?’

  ‘Ones who were concerned about his well-being – Archbishop Tait, who thought he needed spiritual guidance; a lawyer named Bowyer, who wanted to buy him the best medical treatment; and Superintendent Hayes, who stopped Maclean from being beaten by an angry mob and whom Maclean considered a friend.’

  ‘Did Professor Dickerson ask to see him?’

  ‘He did actually,’ said Ashe. ‘To compare Maclean to some Southern African regicides he’d met, although he didn’t stay long.’

  ‘And now all four are dead,’ mused Lonsdale.

  ‘Actually, there were five,’ said Ashe. ‘Mr Voules is still alive, as far as I know, and he’s the one who came the day Maclean vanished from our care in late November. He’s a reporter for The Echo. At least, that’s what he wrote in the visitors’ book.’

  ‘Voules!’ spat Hulda. ‘He swore he’d never been to Broadmoor. The lying toad!’

  ‘More weasel, I’d have said,’ reflected Ashe pedantically. ‘He’s too thin to be likened to a toad, which I always imagine as having plump jowls and—’

  ‘Our Voules is portly,’ interrupted Lonsdale, ‘with greasy dark hair, a bad complexion, and a shambling gait. His clothes are of decent quality, but he wears them badly. Is that the man?’

  ‘No, it’s not – ours was slightly built with a moustache, and his clothes were neat but cheap.’

  ‘There’s only one Voules who writes for The Echo,’ said Lonsdale to Hulda. ‘He was telling the truth for once: someone did use his name to gain illicit access to Maclean.’

  Ashe was dismayed by the revelation. ‘But we sent descriptions of all the visitors to Superintendent Hayes – he’s the officer investigating the escape. His inspector, Wells, wrote back to say they all checked out!’

  ‘Wells wrote back?’ pounced Lonsdale.

  ‘I felt he should have come in person, but his letter claimed that police time would be better spent hunting Maclean than travelling back and forth. It wasn’t unreasonable, although I felt we deserved a more personal touch, given the significance of this particular prisoner. But if our Voules isn’t your reporter, then who is he?’

  ‘Did he wear a bowler hat?’ asked Lonsdale, mind working fast.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Ashe im
patiently. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

  Hulda stared at Lonsdale. ‘I thought Bowler Hat was Maclean – the description fits him like a glove. But if Bowler Hat came to help Maclean escape … what’s going on, Lonsdale?’

  Ashe was so shocked by the notion that an imposter had gained access to a secure facility with such ease that he insisted Lonsdale and Hulda speak to the medical superintendent about it in person. William Orange was a white-haired, serious man with kindly eyes, who listened gravely to what they had to say.

  ‘I shall tell the police at once,’ he said when they had finished. ‘There’s been no progress for weeks, now, so I’m sure Inspector Wells will be delighted to have this new intelligence.’

  ‘He’ll be too busy to act on it,’ said Hulda with uncharacteristic diplomacy. ‘The best man to contact is Inspector Peters. We’ll do it when we return to London.’

  ‘Excellent! Thank you. But we’re conducting an investigation of our own, and I’d appreciate a written statement from you, confirming all you’ve said. My assistant Norris will take it down, then drive you to the station. It won’t take long, and I promise he’ll have you there in time to catch the next train.’

  Lonsdale and Hulda nodded consent, and Norris, who would have been nondescript were it not for his large yellow moustache, took them to a miserable little cell-like room that had nothing in it except a table and two chairs, all bolted to the floor, and a bucket.

  ‘Bear with me,’ he said, indicating that they were to sit. ‘I’ll fetch another seat. I won’t be a moment.’

  He left, closing the door behind him. Then Lonsdale heard a click as a key turned in the lock. He hurried towards it, but there was no handle on the inside, and the door fitted so tightly into its frame that he could not insert so much as a fingernail into the gap.

  ‘Perhaps he did it out of instinct,’ shrugged Hulda, ‘because that’s what they do here – keep doors locked.’