Watchers of the Dead

by Simon Beaufort

‘Yes – in November,’ replied Carlingford. ‘He’s a pleasant enough chap, but we don’t recruit men for being nice. We want ones who are prepared to act on their moral convictions without desire for recognition or reward.’

  ‘Then why elect Burnside?’ asked Hulda doubtfully. ‘He’s spent the last eight months demanding favour for saving the Queen.’

  ‘That was Shaw’s doing – he got him in while I was away, assuming he acted out of loyalty to the Crown. But Burnside has redeemed himself in my eyes these last few days, by working tirelessly to decorate the hall.’

  But Lonsdale was still thinking about the grass, because everything had suddenly become horribly clear.

  ‘The killer,’ he blurted. ‘It’s Fleetwood-Pelham!’

  ‘Rubbish!’ cried Humbage. ‘He’s a courtier – a Groom-in-Waiting, no less.’

  ‘And Mr Morley’s friend,’ put in Hulda more quietly. ‘Mr Morley wouldn’t associate with a murderer.’

  ‘Fleetwood-Pelham mentioned the friendship,’ countered Lonsdale, ‘Mr Morley didn’t. And it was a lie, aimed to make us more favourably disposed towards him.’

  ‘No, I agree with Humberg,’ said Carlingford. ‘Fleetwood-Pelham isn’t a killer. He was in the army, for God’s sake.’

  Lonsdale waved the letter. ‘The grass left on the bodies is called Watchers of the Dead. Francis Galton has identified that particular variety as endemic to Zululand – and Fleetwood-Pelham was in the Zulu war. He had other keepsakes from that region in his rooms, although most came from India and Bhutan.’

  ‘The comb!’ exclaimed Hulda. ‘He bought it after the battle of Ulundi, where the Zulus were crushed.’

  ‘But thousands of men fought at Ulundi,’ Carlingford pointed out. ‘Your “evidence” is flawed.’

  ‘But thousands of men don’t have an interest in horticulture and a glasshouse for growing exotic species,’ countered Lonsdale, recalling how quickly Fleetwood-Pelham had drawn the curtains when Hulda had tried to look outside. ‘Moreover, consider his rank and connections – I imagine he was the one who whispered orders in Humbage’s receptive ear.’

  Humbage scowled. ‘Yes, he did tell me the Palace would appreciate me urging you to abandon your enquiries, but that doesn’t mean that—’

  ‘And we now know his motive,’ interrupted Lonsdale. ‘The victims basically told him he was a lesser man than them.’

  ‘I was rather hoping you’d never guess,’ came a soft voice from behind them. ‘Now I’ll have to kill you, too.’

  It was Fleetwood-Pelham, and with him were the five men who had tried to push Lonsdale and Hulda under the omnibus. All were armed.

  The courtier acted quickly and decisively. Carlingford was ordered to drop his weapon, then all four prisoners were made to sit in upright chairs, where they were bound with cords from the curtains. When they were immobile, Fleetwood-Pelham tucked his gun into his trouser belt, which was when Lonsdale saw the panga.

  He studied the Groom-in-Waiting’s face – the great domed forehead above the tiny chin, rendering him benign and vaguely comical. But there was nothing amusing about his eyes, which were cold, hard and calculating.

  Hulda sat stiff and angry, frantically trying to devise a way to escape. Carlingford was full of indignant disbelief, while Humbage was frightened and bewildered. Lonsdale took a deep breath, calming himself with the knowledge that Peters was coming. Fleetwood-Pelham read his mind.

  ‘Don’t expect rescue. Peters will be on his way to Birmingham by now.’

  ‘He won’t,’ countered Lonsdale. ‘Humbage’s butler will have told him the truth.’

  ‘Taylor?’ asked Fleetwood-Pelham smugly. ‘He’s been in my pay for weeks, making sure Humbage here did as he was told.’

  ‘Taylor would never betray me,’ said Humbage in a strangled voice. ‘He’s been with the family for years.’

  Fleetwood-Pelham smiled. ‘Yes, but he’s weak, ambitious and greedy. Such men are easy prey. I did the same with Henderson, Wells and Norris.’

  ‘Who’s Norris?’ asked Carlingford, more angry than fearful at the situation in which he found himself.

  ‘He wants the medical superintendent’s job at Broadmoor,’ replied Fleetwood-Pelham. ‘I offered to arrange it for him in exchange for … certain services.’

  ‘Arranging Maclean’s escape and, later, getting rid of us,’ said Lonsdale, and glanced at Humbage. ‘And it was you who told him we were going there.’

  ‘Norris failed me, unfortunately,’ Fleetwood-Pelham went on, while Humbage refused to meet Lonsdale’s eyes. ‘Just as Wells failed me when I told him to burn down the mortuary with several inconvenient witnesses and Dickerson inside it. I’ll pay each a visit when I finish here.’

  ‘Taylor would never—’ repeated Humbage hoarsely.

  ‘Well, he did,’ interrupted Fleetwood-Pelham. ‘For fifty pounds – the same sum I paid Wells for doing my bidding. Others, like you and Henderson, I won with promises of royal favour. But the upshot is that Peters won’t be coming.’

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening to me,’ said Humbage unsteadily. ‘Why? What have I ever done to deserve such a fate?’

  No one bothered to answer him. Fleetwood-Pelham smirked at Lonsdale and Hulda. ‘I’ve arranged for Henderson to resume command. You’ll disappear today, but his officers will make no great effort to find you – not when your removal represents a solution to all his problems.’

  ‘Not even Henderson can overlook more murders in the Garraway,’ argued Hulda hotly, ‘especially now word of his dubious probity will be all over Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Murder?’ echoed Fleetwood-Pelham in mock horror. ‘Who said anything about murder? In an hour, poor, silly Humbage will accidentally set his chair alight with a cigar. The whole club will burn down and your bodies will never be identified.’

  ‘In an hour?’ cried Carlingford. ‘But our paupers will be here then, eating.’

  Fleetwood-Pelham’s smile was unsettling. ‘Then what a pity the Watchers will be forever associated with that terrible tragedy. The doors will be locked and no one will escape, including all the remaining Watchers.’

  ‘You will kill more than two hundred people for spite?’ breathed Hulda, shocked. ‘Because you wanted to be a Watcher and they rejected you?’

  Fleetwood-Pelham’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘My name was put forward at the same time as Burnside’s. Burnside – a rogue who aimed to profit from disarming the lunatic who tried to shoot the Queen. They chose him and refused me. It was a deliberate insult to my name and honour. It couldn’t be overlooked.’

  ‘Shaw proposed Burnside,’ said Lonsdale, as more answers snapped clear in his mind.

  Fleetwood-Pelham sniffed. ‘And he was seconded by Haldane and Bowyer. Then it was my turn, but four men had written letters of objection: Tait, Gurney, Dickerson—’

  ‘And me,’ finished Carlingford heavily. ‘My God, man, you’re mad! And why kill in such a violent, brutal manner? Was that really necessary?’

  ‘I would’ve preferred something less messy, but it was the only way to ensure Dickerson’s cannibals bore the blame,’ replied Fleetwood-Pelham, and removed the panga from his belt. ‘It worked, with a little help from certain newspapers. And before you ask, I killed Hayes because he was conducting an investigation on the sly.’

  ‘But this is—’ began Carlingford angrily.

  ‘I shan’t need this any more,’ said Fleetwood-Pelham, and tossed the panga in a corner. ‘The fire will do all I require.’

  He began to pile kindling against Humbage’s chair.

  ‘They were wrong to reject you,’ said Humbage quickly, watching his preparations in alarm. ‘You are a more honourable man than Burnside. Than all of them. I’ve always thought so. Let me go and I’ll make sure everyone knows it.’

  ‘His honour wasn’t the issue though, was it?’ asked Hulda of Carlingford. ‘It was his love of gossip – the fact that Watchers’ deeds would no longer be secret.’

  Carlingf
ord scowled. ‘We couldn’t elect a member who can’t keep his mouth shut. And don’t say you do, because look at what’s in today’s Pall Mall Gazette – a full report on the Queen’s Christmas travel arrangements, which was highly classified information.’

  ‘He even gave me the itinerary,’ put in Hulda.

  ‘I don’t see why good deeds need to be furtive,’ grumbled Fleetwood-Pelham. ‘Why not take the credit for what you do?’

  ‘Because we’re Watchers,’ snapped Carlingford. ‘We watch silently, then act silently. We don’t bray about what we do.’

  He glanced up at the painting of the angel that hung on the wall – the silent Watcher with its hauntingly beautiful expression. Lonsdale recalled the pictures in Fleetwood-Pelham’s rooms, and wondered why he had not realized sooner that The Watcher was his work.

  ‘Changing the nameplate was a risk,’ he remarked. ‘From The Watcher to The Watcher of the Dead. If Humbage hadn’t taken it home to mend …’

  Fleetwood-Pelham laughed harshly. ‘It was my little joke, as was leaving a piece of African grass behind. I knew no one was clever enough to understand its significance, and I was right.’

  He turned on his heel and walked out.

  Fleetwood-Pelham’s men began to heap logs and coal in places where flames would leap from them to the curtains and the wood-panelled walls. Lonsdale had no doubt that the room would be an inferno within moments of a match being set to the kindling. After receiving a hefty punch apiece for trying to talk, he and Carlingford fell silent. Humbage began to weep, while Hulda sat stiff and proud, defiance in every bone.

  Behind his back, Lonsdale struggled frantically with the rope, although it was so tight his hands and feet were numb. In his pocket he had the dinosaur claw, sharp from its use in Broadmoor, but he could not reach it – and nor could anyone else pull it out without the guards seeing. He glanced at Hulda, wondering if she had a plan, but when she met his gaze, he saw only angry helplessness.

  Then the clock struck noon and there was a low rumble. At first, Lonsdale could not place the sound, but then he realized it was the Watchers’ paupers being led along the hallway and into the dining room. The rumble quickly turned to a babble of excited voices as the guests began to avail themselves of the refreshments.

  ‘Two hundred people!’ cried Carlingford in despair. ‘We can’t let him murder innocents who came here on trust!’

  One of the guards strode towards him, fist raised, but the door opened and Fleetwood-Pelham was back. The henchman let his hand drop to his side.

  ‘They’re here,’ the courtier said pleasantly. ‘Twice as many as you invited, because word of free victuals spread, and your Watcher friends aren’t man enough to turn interlopers away. But all the better for me. The Watchers will be blamed for slaughtering four hundred beggars, and the name will live in infamy forever.’

  ‘Please, no!’ breathed Carlingford, ashen. ‘These folk have done nothing to harm you.’

  Fleetwood-Pelham turned to his men. ‘I’ve locked all the doors, while we took care of the windows last night. We’re ready. Light the fire.’

  ‘No!’ screamed Humbage, struggling frantically. ‘You can’t kill me! I did what you asked. Please let me go! I’ll be your man, and I promise never to expect anything in return.’

  ‘Tempting,’ said Fleetwood-Pelham drily. ‘But only a fool trusts your kind, and no one could ever accuse me of stupidity.’

  He nodded to his men. Four left at once, while the last touched a taper to the kindling around Humbage’s chair. Humbage struggled so violently that Lonsdale was sure his heart would burst. There was a wisp of smoke, then the kindling began to crackle. The henchman hurried out, although Fleetwood-Pelham paused to glance back.

  ‘Inhale the smoke,’ he advised. ‘It will be an easier death than the flames.’

  He left, and they heard the door lock behind him.

  ‘Help me!’ howled Humbage, as flames began to lick around his trousers. He leaned back and waved his legs in the air like an overturned beetle.

  ‘The claw!’ Lonsdale yelled at Hulda, twisting so that his pocket was within her reach. ‘Get the claw and give it to me.’

  She understood instantly, and within seconds it was in his hand. He began to saw, heart pounding when he could not gain proper purchase and the flames around Humbage licked higher. Terrified, Humbage kicked his legs so violently that his chair tipped over backwards.

  Lonsdale felt the claw slippery in his fingers, although whether from blood or sweat, he could not tell. Then the cord began to part. He pulled with all his might, and felt it snap. The rope dropped to the floor. He freed his legs, then untied Hulda. She snatched the claw.

  ‘Get the panga and smash the door,’ she ordered, going to hack through Carlingford’s bonds. ‘Hurry!’

  Lonsdale hauled Humbage away from the flames first, then ran to where Fleetwood-Pelham had tossed his murder weapon. He grabbed it and aimed for the door, swinging at it with all his might. But the door was old, hard and thick, and the weapon made scant impact. Carlingford jostled him out of the way, and began flailing at it with a chair, although that was no more effective than the panga.

  ‘Don’t stop!’ bellowed Hulda, when Lonsdale and Carlingford paused, both realizing that their efforts were futile.

  ‘The window!’ gasped Lonsdale, eyes smarting as the smoke thickened. ‘We can climb through the window.’

  ‘Nailed shut,’ rasped Humbage, who had raced to examine it the moment he was free. ‘Keep hitting the door. Someone will hear and come to save us.’

  ‘They won’t,’ said Carlingford tautly. ‘Our guests are making too much noise.’

  It was true, and Lonsdale could hear the racket they were making even above the roar and crackle of flames. He looked around frantically, unwilling to stand by while innocents died, just because decent men had fallen foul of Fleetwood-Pelham’s pride.

  He hurried to the window, but Humbage was right – it would not budge. In frustration, he hurled a chair at it, but it had leaded panes that refused to break. He persisted though, determined not to die like Humbage, who had retrieved the gun Carlingford had dropped, and was preparing to use it on himself.

  Then the door flew open with such force that Carlingford was sent staggering backwards. Peters stood there, Burnside on one side and Voules – of all people – on the other.

  ‘The flames!’ shouted Lonsdale, feeling explanations could come later. ‘Douse the flames. And evacuate the building.’

  ‘Rip down the curtains before they catch light,’ Peters ordered his men. ‘Voules – get water.’

  The next few moments were a blur of frantic activity as everyone hastened to obey. A few guests came to see what was happening and found themselves drafted into lugging buckets of water from the kitchen; with so many willing hands, the fire was soon extinguished. Lonsdale leaned against the wall, coughing and rubbing his smarting eyes.

  ‘You owe me, Lonsdale,’ said Voules with one of his irritating smirks. ‘Peters would be halfway to Birmingham by now if I hadn’t stopped him.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Peters. ‘We were given false information by Humbage’s butler, but Voules had followed you here. He smelled a rat when a lot of beggars began to gather outside and ran to Scotland Yard. He caught us just as we were leaving for the railway station.’

  ‘The rat wasn’t the paupers,’ snarled Carlingford furiously. ‘It was that damned Fleetwood-Pelham. Where is he?’

  Peters nodded down the corridor where the courtier was being held by two officers. He was talking to them, and Lonsdale was sure he was using his slippery tongue to bribe them into letting him go. He started to shout a warning, but Humbage still had Carlingford’s gun. Everyone jumped as he aimed it and fired. Fleetwood-Pelham sagged between the officers, then fell to the floor amid a spreading stain of red.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ demanded Peters, shocked. ‘He was under arrest.’

  ‘For justice,’ replied Humbage stiffly. ‘He
deserved it.’

  EPILOGUE

  New Year’s Eve

  Neither Lonsdale nor Hulda felt much like celebrating Christmas after the events at the Garraway Club. They were weary, battered and reeked of smoke. They went to their respective homes, where Hulda spent the rest of the day trying to scrub the stench from her hair, and Lonsdale slept for ten hours straight.

  The following week was busy for them both, with Lonsdale taking over Milner’s editorial duties, and Hulda doing the work of two reporters. Peters gave them permission to write up the Watchers of the Dead case, as he referred to it, but they had done no more than gather their notes before Stead came to tell them it would never appear in print.

  ‘Why not?’ Hulda demanded.

  ‘Fleetwood-Pelham may be dead, but his reputation must remain unsullied because of his connection to the Queen,’ replied the assistant editor sourly. ‘The Prime Minister himself asked Mr Morley not to run the story, because of the damage it might do to the monarchy.’

  ‘Justice!’ spat Hulda in disgust. ‘Perhaps Humbage was right to shoot him – he doubtless would’ve walked free otherwise, to kill again out of pettiness and spite.’

  Lonsdale invited Hulda to see in the New Year with him and Jack – and with Lady Gertrude, who was staying with them until her old friend the Duke of Cambridge found her more appropriate accommodation. He had been delighted to renew their friendship after so many years, and she was looking forward to a far more interesting life than the one Humbage had allowed her.

  The four of them sat around the dining-room table, where the staff, openly delighted that there were to be no Miss Humbages in their future, had provided a sumptuous feast.

  ‘Hark at them!’ exclaimed Gertrude, cocking her head at the sounds of merriment that emanated from the kitchen below. ‘It can’t all be because my granddaughters are out of the picture, so it must be because Voules has asked Sybil to marry him.’

  ‘She hasn’t accepted, has she?’ breathed Lonsdale, horrified.

  ‘Of course not! She can do a lot better than Voules, even if he did save your lives. He’ll want something in return, you know. How will you repay him?’