The Ornamental Hermit

by Olivier Bosman

  Yours lovingly,

  Sebastian

  The second letter was written in Oxford and received only six weeks ago.

  Dear Mother and Father,

  You will be surprised by this letter after ten years. Much has happened to me since we last saw each other and I don’t know where to begin explaining, but I should like to see you again. Please write back to me and tell me how you are.

  Yours lovingly,

  Sebastian

  Billings observed some striking differences between the two letters, both in calligraphy and style. In his opinion, the first was written by a confident and flowing hand, whereas judging by the pressure applied to the pen and the missing joints halfway through the words, the second letter was written considerably slower and with much greater effort. As if the writing of it caused the author physical pain. He felt that this might also account for the abruptness of the style. However, the size, shapes, curls and dashes of the letters were consistent. He dropped the letters on his bed. He would read them again later when he was sober, although he had already made a conclusion. In his current state of mind he was always unencumbered by the cluttered mess of anxieties which normally troubled him and he was able to make clear and reliable judgements. His inclination was to believe that the second letter was written by the same author as the first, from which he concluded that the writer was not an impostor and that Sebastian Forrester was still alive.

  3. The Vulgar Man

  A thin young man in a long grey overcoat and brown derby hat was leaning against the wall of the Scotland Yard building when Billings came walking down the Victoria Embankment. He lit a cigarette and lifted his head as Billings approached. “Ah, Detective Sergeant Billings. So it’s you, is it?” he said with an amused glint in his eye.

  Billings stopped and looked at him, confused.

  “So it’s you who’s been put in charge of the of the Lord Palmer case,” the man continued.

  “Do I know you?” Billings asked.

  The man stood up from the wall and tipped his hat. “Jeremiah Rook, from The Illustrated Police News. How do you do,” he said. “So he’s been caught then, has he?”

  “A man matching Brendan Lochrane’s description was picked up yesterday in Battersea Park, if that’s what you’re referring to,” Billings mumbled back politely, “but his identity has not yet been confirmed.” He tipped his hat back at the reporter and continued walking briskly towards the entrance, hoping to avoid any further questions.

  The reporter, however, followed him and quickly matched his pace. “Did he have a tongue?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The man you caught yesterday? Did he have a tongue?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Well, then it’s him, isn’t it? The Wild Man of Sutton Courtenay.”

  “We don’t know that for certain yet.”

  “What, you got a lot of suspects without a tongue in there, have you?”

  “No.”

  “So it’s him. The evil axe murderer! The depraved cur! The vile beast!”

  Billings stopped and frowned disapprovingly at the reporter’s sensationalist descriptions. The reporter just smiled back at him cheekily. “So what does he look like then, the Wild Man?” he asked.

  “You know what he looks like. It’s been in the papers.”

  “Have you got him chained up to the wall?”

  “What? No, he’s not chained up.”

  “Why not? Isn’t he roaring and raging and rattling his cage?”

  “No.”

  “Not foaming at the mouth, then?” Another cheeky smile. “I hear he was found hiding in the bushes,” he continued.

  “That is correct.”

  “Digging his teeth into a little dead dog.”

  Billings frowned again. “What paper did you say you work for? The Penny Dreadful?”

  The reporter laughed. “It was a joke, Billings. You can take a joke, can’t you? Or have I offended thy delicate ears?”

  Billings didn’t understand why he was suddenly using that archaic pronoun and looked confused.

  “Well, that is how ye speak, isn’t it?” the reporter continued. “Thou and all thy friends?”

  It was after he emphasized the word ‘friends’ that Billings realised he was referring to the plain speech used by the early Quaker fathers. “We don’t speak like that anymore,” he said, turning his back towards him and resuming his walk. The reporter followed him again.

  “Well, come on Billings! Give us some details! What was he doing in his cell when you found him?”

  “He wasn’t doing anything. The man I saw yesterday was meek, tired and docile. He was confused and scared and…”

  “Aha!”

  “What?”

  “Sympathy! You felt sympathy for him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did feel some pity for…”

  “Your father was Gideon Billings, was he not? A devout Quaker missionary who died in Madagascar in 1877.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “And you were brought up as the ward of Frederick Forrester, chairman of the Friends Foreign Mission Association and friend and follower of Joseph John Gurney, brother of Mrs Elizabeth Fry, the famous prison reformer,” the reporter continued.

  “I don’t see how any of that is relevant to...”

  “Oh, but it is relevant, Sergeant. It’s very relevant,” he said, suddenly adopting a serious and confrontational tone.

  Billings realised that the reporter was setting up a trap for him and he was determined not to fall into it. He stopped, took a deep breath and turned around slowly to face him. “Mr Rook,” he said calmly, trying to force a friendly smile on his face. “The investigation has only just commenced. The suspect’s identity has not yet been established, let alone his guilt, and...”

  “Let me tell you what the problem is, Sergeant.”

  “There is no problem.”

  “The problem is you.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re a Quaker. You see God in everyone. And in my opinion there should be no room in the police force for bleeding heart sentimentalists like yourself! Because people like these, Sergeant, people like the Wild Man of Sutton Courtenay are not human beings! They’re monsters and need to be treated as such! It’s my job as a reporter to scrutinize our police detectives and make sure they do their jobs right. You’ve already made a pig’s ear of the Whitechapel Ripper case, which is a disgrace, so I’m here to make sure that, unlike the Ripper, the Wild Man of Sutton Courtenay does get his just desserts! So imagine my concern, Detective Sergeant Billings, at hearing just now that you’ve taken pity on that monster!” A short pause followed the rant. And then a broad smile appeared on the reporter’s face.

  Damn it! thought Billings. The blooming bugger has caught me! He could see another damning article about the Metropolitan Police appearing in next week’s paper.

  When Billings entered the office, he saw Clarkson sitting at his desk with his feet on the table, reading a paper. The Illustrated Police News, of all things. “Morning Billings,” he said cheerfully.

  Billings mumbled a grumpy reply, walked past him to his desk, sat down and put his head in his hands. He could already feel the blood pound in his head and his left hand was starting to tremble. It was only half past eight in the morning.

  “Jacobs wants to see you,” Clarkson continued. “Probably wants to brief you about the Lord Palmer case. How’s that going, by the way?”

  Billings didn’t answer. He just got up and walked to Jacobs’s office. Just eight more hours till my next dose, was all that he could think about. Just eight more hours.

  *

  Chief Inspector Jacobs was sitting at his desk when Billings came into his office. His back was turned towards the door and he was staring out of the window, frowning and massaging his temples. Billings stopped in the doorway and cleared his throat. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Jacobs turned and looked at him absentmindedly. There was
a brief pause before he spoke. “Ah Billings, yes. Sit down, sit down.”

  Billings grabbed a chair and sat down before him.

  “So…” Jacobs started ruffling through a pile of files on his desk. Then he stopped and frowned. He seemed to be distracted by something and appeared to have difficulty collecting his thoughts. There was a whole mess of paperwork spread out on his desk. Amongst the various reports and receipts, Billings spotted a letter from the bailiff. It was addressed to Jacobs personally and it looked like a repossession warning. Could this be the reason for his distraction, he thought.

  “The Wild Man of Sutton Courtenay,” Jacobs said, pulling himself together and grabbing a file from the stack. “I believe you talked to this... um...” He opened the file and looked through the Berkshire CID’s report. “Brendan Lochrane.”

  “Well, I went to see him in his cell on Friday, but I didn’t speak with him. He doesn’t talk. He has no tongue.”

  “So I’ve read. I thought Clarkson was on duty last Friday?”

  “We swapped shifts. He was tired.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right. The Russian counterfeiters. Well, as if we didn’t already have enough on our plates, our superintendent has now also handed us this.” He closed the file and slammed his palm on it. “The murder of Lord Palmer. So what are your thoughts?”

  “Thoughts, sir?”

  “Well, come, come. You saw that man on Friday. What is the next move?”

  “Well, I suppose the first thing we must do is to obtain a positive identification of the suspect.”

  “I thought he matched the description in the police gazette perfectly.”

  “Not quite, sir. The Berkshire Constabulary described him as being around six foot three. The suspect I saw is considerably shorter.”

  “So you want somebody to identify him in person?”

  “I think that would be best.”

  “Like who?”

  “Well, I thought perhaps Lord Palmer’s wife?”

  “Ah yes, Lady Palmer. Well, the thing is, Billings, Lady Palmer has made it quite clear to the Superintendent that she does not wish to set eyes on that vulgar man again. ‘Vulgar man’ were her words.”

  “But surely, if she’s a witness in a murder investigation...”

  “I don’t much like aristocrats.” Jacobs suddenly raised his eyes towards the window. “Do you?”

  “What?” Billings asked confused.

  “Like aristocrats?”

  “I can’t say I’ve ever met any.”

  “They’re decadent. They’re like children who’ve never grown up.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about it, sir.”

  “Well, take it from me, Billings. People who’ve never known money problems become decadent and spoilt.” There was a certain bitterness in his tone. “But crimes involving aristocrats are always passed on to the Yard, because these are people with influence and connections. We must always treat them with delicacy. After all, they run the country and the very existence of the CID lies in their hands. We’re still on shaky ground, Billings.”

  Billings knew exactly what he was referring to. It had been thirteen years since the Turf Fraud Scandal, but the Metropolitan Police Force was still struggling to live it down. And the lack of progress they were making on the Whitechapel Ripper case was not aiding their cause.

  “If Lady Palmer says she doesn’t wish to set eyes on that vulgar man again,” Jacobs continued, “then we must take that seriously. Perhaps we could show her a photograph instead.”

  “It is hard to tell a man’s size from a photograph. It is the suspect’s size that is disputed here.”

  “We could have him photographed next to you. How tall are you, Billings?”

  “With all due respect sir, a ruffled, bearded tramp will look very much like any other in a photograph.”

  “Not without a tongue, he doesn’t.”

  “Isn’t it possible, sir, that there are other beggars out there without a tongue?”

  “Possible, Billings, but not very plausible.”

  “But possible, though?”

  There was a short pause. “Oh, I suppose you’re right, Billings. It looks like we shall have to inconvenience her ladyship after all.” This was followed by a mischievous smile. “Lady Palmer is currently staying with her daughter in London. We could send someone to pick her up. But I warn you, Billings, we must tread carefully here. ”

  “I shall be respectful with her, sir, as I always am with everyone.”

  *

  It was a little after two o’clock in the afternoon when Lady Palmer came storming into the room. “Never in all my days... well, which of you is Chief Inspector Jacobs?” She was accompanied by a small, wiry fellow with long ginger hair sticking out of a top hat.

  It wasn’t customary for civilians to enter the office unaccompanied by a constable, so Jacobs and Billings were taken aback by their sudden entrance.

  “Lady Palmer,” Jacobs said as he got up to shake her hands. “I am so sorry about you husband’s death.”

  “Why are you sorry? Did you do it?”

  “No, I only meant...”

  “I know what you meant! And I didn’t come here for your sympathy or your condolences! Now, will you please tell me why I was whisked down the stairs by one of your officers and shoved into a cab!”

  “Mother, you were neither whisked nor shoved,” said the ginger haired man who had a joyful smirk on his face and was apparently relishing the spectacle that was about to unfold.

  Jacobs walked towards one of the desks and pulled out a seat. “Lady Palmer, please, will you sit down.”

  She gave him an angry look before obliging him by removing her hat, pulling up her bustle and perching herself on the end of the chair. “You may at least offer me a cup of tea!” she demanded.

  “Of course. Um... Billings!” Jacobs snapped his fingers at his colleague.

  Billings looked up from his desk and pretended to be oblivious. “Sir?” (What was he, the tea boy all of a sudden!)

  “Tea for Lady Palmer and uh…”

  “Etherbridge,” the ginger haired man said. “Arthur Etherbridge. I’m married to Lady Palmer’s daughter.”

  “I shall tell Jack,” Billings mumbled angrily and left the room. When he re-entered the office a few minutes later with the tea tray, Lady Palmer was still complaining.

  “Questions! Questions! You do nothing but ask questions! I know nothing about that vulgar man! I just want to know when he will be hanged!”

  “We haven’t quite established whether the man we arrested last Saturday really is Brendan Lochrane,” Jacobs responded. “Or that he is the man who attacked Lord Palmer.”

  Lady Palmer looked as though she was about to rise up from her seat and fling her hat at him, when Billings intervened and offered her a cup of tea.

  “You said Brendan Lochrane was in the employ of your husband,” Jacobs continued.

  “I said no such thing!”

  “Didn’t you? I thought...” He flicked through some pages on his lap. “Oh, it was a certain Mr Green. Mr Green told the Berkshire Constabulary...”

  “Green is the gardener, Mr Jacobs!” said Etherbridge, laughing. He was standing behind Lady Palmer. “You had better not start mistaking Lady Palmer for the gardener!”

  Jacobs ignored Etherbridge’s little joke and continued questioning Lady Palmer. “In what capacity was Brendan Lochrane employed?”

  “Capacity?”

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing! He did absolutely nothing!”

  “Well... then why did Lord Palmer pay him?”

  “Brendan Lochrane was what Lord Palmer called an ornamental hermit,” Etherbridge chipped in. “It was all the fashion a hundred years ago. The idea was to employ someone who would live in the grotto which one of Lord Palmer’s ancestors had built on the estate.”

  “A grotto?”

  “A grotto, yes. They constructed it in the woods behind the rock garden. Next to the fol
ly of the old Norman wall which was built around the same time.”

  “And what was this ornamental hermit supposed to do?”

  “Well, he was to do what all hermits do. Fast and pray and atone for our sins. He was supposed to be a spiritual presence on the estate. He was to wear a long white robe, grow his hair and his beard and live on meagre rations of bread, water and lentil soup. He was to add a beautiful aesthetic to the environment. After all, nothing can give more delight to the eye than the spectacle of an aged person with a long grey beard doddering about amongst the discomforts and pleasures of nature. It’s a common practice in India. Fakirs and holy men and such. They’re held in very high esteem over there.”

  “Well, it’s all very fine and well in India, but we’re in England!” added Lady Palmer. “And in England we wear clothes! In England we wash! In England we work for the people on whose land we are permitted to live! I think it’s obscene. I haven’t set foot in our garden since he moved in. And we have such a lovely garden, Inspector.”

  “I think, however, that Lord Palmer might have been a bit more discriminating in his choice of hermit,” continued Etherbridge. “The hermit was supposed to exhibit wisdom and have an air of sagacity about him. Brendan Lochrane was just far too grumpy and malodorous for that.”

  Jacobs ignored Etherbridge again and continued to question Lady Palmer. “Why do you think Lord Palmer was attacked by this man?”

  “Why? Well, because he was mad, that’s why! He’s a lunatic! A raving lunatic!”

  “Could there perhaps have been a dispute? Over payment maybe? How much was he paid?”

  “I do not know how much he was paid. I did not get involved in my husband’s ridiculous eccentricities. I wanted absolutely nothing to do with that vulgar man. I told him not to allow that filthy person onto our grounds. And now he’s dead. Well, he got what he asked for, as far as I’m concerned.”