The Ornamental Hermit

by Olivier Bosman

  “What about my report?” Billings asked.

  “Clarkson will write it.”

  “But Clarkson didn’t speak to Bertie Green.”

  “Clarkson will write it!” Jacobs repeated sternly.

  6. The Mysterious Scholar

  It was seven o’ clock in the morning. Billings got out of bed, splashed some water on his face, got dressed and headed out of the house without eating. But he didn’t go to work. He had taken the day off, as Jacobs suggested. That blasted tendency of his to take things to heart had indeed reared its ugly head again. He had been tossing and turning all night, pondering and speculating about Lochrane’s confession. Why did Lochrane’s plight affect him so? It was the thought of him sitting alone in that cold, damp cave which had impressed him. All his romantic notions of nature and solitude which the tales of Robinson Crusoe had implanted in him had vanished. It was a harsh, lonely life which Lochrane had led – and was still leading – having swapped a cold stone cave for a cold brick cell. All he could think of was that lost and desperate look in Lochrane’s eyes. There was a gentleness hidden there behind that rough, weather-beaten face and the dirty beard. A beautiful and melancholy look which somehow felt familiar. Were there echoes there of his own loneliness? Could he end up like that if he let his addiction and moodiness get out of control? Was Lochrane a cautionary tale?

  Billings stepped out of the house, crossed Chelsea Bridge and made his way towards Hyde Park. Even at this hour, the city was already bustling with cabs and omnibuses and commuters and costermongers. He kept thinking about the case. He simply couldn’t let it go. It didn’t make any sense. Why would Lochrane subject himself to months of hardship and humiliation then snap only one month before completing his contract and receiving his reward? He couldn’t help but think that the Berkshire Constabulary hadn’t been thorough enough in their investigation. If only he’d had more time to go through their reports. He remained unconvinced by DS Ferguson’s explanation as to why Lord Palmer had called his assailant a gypsy parasite. The gypsies had only been interviewed once. Anyone with sufficient money could buy themselves an alibi. And what about Mr Percy? Nobody had mentioned him to the Berkshire Constabulary so they had no chance to investigate any possible links. There was something about this mysterious scholar which intrigued him. A young man from Oxford studying hermits. Could he know anything about Sebastian Forrester? Could these two cases be linked?

  *

  The Etherbridges lived in Mayfair in one of those smart, white terrace houses opposite a small gated park. Billings was met by suspicious glances as he entered the square. Nannies pushing perambulators in the park, housemaids dusting carpets at the windows, gardeners sweeping fallen leaves from the doorsteps, all of them glared with distrust and curiosity as he made his way towards the doorsteps of the Etherbridge house. He ignored them, climbed the steps and rang the bell.

  The door was opened by the housekeeper.

  “Yes?” she asked, scanning Billings up and down with a look of disdain.

  “My name is Detective Sergeant John Billings from the Metropolitan Police. I should like to speak to Lady Palmer.”

  “Lady Palmer is not receiving visitors.”

  “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  “Insist what you like, sonny, but I am under strict instructions not to disturb her!”

  Billings was taken aback by the woman’s rudeness. Had she not understood him correctly? “I’m Detective Sergeant Billings,” he repeated, “from the Metropolitan Police. I need to speak to Lady Palmer about the investigation into her husband’s death.”

  “Yes, I heard you the first time,” the housekeeper continued in the same arrogant tone. “And as I understand it, Lady Palmer has spoken to the police already. Several times, in fact. I am sure that Lady Palmer can not possibly have anything more to say on the topic.” The housekeeper was about the close the door on Billings, when he put his foot in the doorway and blocked the door.

  “I don’t really need your permission to enter, miss… um…”

  “Don’t you ‘miss’ me, mister! My name is Hynge. Mrs Hynge. And I will not let you in without a search warrant.”

  Billings frowned. He hated the way popular publications like The Illustrated Police News had given the public inaccurate information about police procedure. “I do not need a search warrant, Mrs Hynge. I only want to speak to Lady Palmer. She is legally obliged to cooperate. If you will not fetch her for me I shall go in and fetch her myself.”

  The housekeeper sighed and hesitated. “Very well, then.” She opened the door to let Billings in. “I shall fetch Mr Etherbridge for you, but that’s all I can do. It’s more than my job’s worth to disturb her ladyship!”

  Billings took off his hat, entered the house and sat down on a chair by the doorway while the housekeeper disappeared into the drawing room. He looked around the grand, spacious hallway; the Doric columns which flanked the doorway; the large white marble tiles on the floor; the potted palm by the staircase. He then looked at his hat on his lap with the moth-eaten crown and the frizzled brim, and at the cuffs on his black jacket which were frayed and covered in black boot polish in order to hide the discoloration. He frowned. He was suddenly reminded of Mr Forrester’s Chelsea home in which he grew up and where he was made to feel equally out of place. How he despised the rich.

  “Ah, it’s you!”

  Etherbridge suddenly appeared from the drawing room. He walked towards Billings with that mocking grin of his. “You’re the chap who led us into the dungeons,” he continued.

  Billings got up from his chair and bowed his head. “I am sorry to bother you again, Mr Etherbridge, but I should like to speak to Lady Palmer.”

  “Have you come to apologise?” Etherbridge asked with a smile.

  “Apologise?”

  “For the ordeal you put her through last time.”

  “No, I have not. I have come to ask her some more questions.”

  “Questions? Oh dear, oh dear. That will be troublesome. Lady Palmer is awfully tired of answering questions. Perhaps if you tell her you’ve come to apologise. She might let you in then.”

  “She will have to let me in whether she wants to or not, Mr Etherbridge. I represent the law.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, my dear chap. But you do want Lady Palmer to cooperate, don’t you? If you barge in against her will, she will simply clam up. I know how to handle her, Mr Billings. Say you’ve come to apologise, then slip your questions into the conversation afterwards. Trust me. That’s the way to get results.”

  Billings hesitated. Was Etherbridge mocking him? “Very well,” he said eventually. “Tell Lady Palmer that I’ve come to apologise.”

  “Good man!” Etherbridge patted Billings on his back and rushed excitedly back towards the drawing room. “Wait here,” he said, before disappearing.

  He reappeared a few seconds later with a broad grin on his face. “Lady Palmer will see you now, Mr Billings.” This was followed by a wink .

  Lady Palmer was sitting in a red velvet armchair at the end of the drawing room. A newspaper was resting on her lap, but she wasn’t reading it. Instead she was looking straight at Billings through her pince-nez as he entered the room.

  “So you’ve come to apologise?” she said.

  “I have.”

  Etherbridge smiled and nodded at him encouragingly.

  “I have already received a written apology from your boss,” Lady Palmer continued. “A second apology seems entirely superfluous and a complete waste of time. I hope the Metropolitan Police has better things to do with its time than to go around apologising to people!” She put her pince-nez down on the table beside her and continued reading the paper.

  Billings looked at Etherbridge angrily. Etherbridge just shrugged and smiled apologetically.

  “Won’t you sit down, Mr Billings,” he said, pointing at the sofa opposite Lady Palmer. “Tell us about your investigation?”

  “Investigation?” Lady Palmer picked up her pin
ce-nez again and looked at Billings. “What is there to investigate? I though the vulgar man had been caught. When will he be hanged, that’s what I want to know.”

  “He won’t be hanged until he is found guilty by the court, mother,” Etherbridge explained. “And that won’t happen until the police have assembled sufficient facts to prove his guilt. Mr Billings is currently in the process of assembling these facts, isn’t that right, Mr Billings?”

  “That is right.”

  “Perhaps, mother, we may be able to assist Mr Billings. I believe Mr Billings has some more questions he wishes to ask you.” He looked at Billings and winked again.

  “Do you have more questions you want to ask me, Mr Billings?” Lady Palmer was still looking at him through her pince-nez.

  “I do, Lady Palmer. I wish to ask you about a certain Mr Percy.”

  “Clement Percy? What has he to do with anything?”

  “I believe he was staying at the house the night before Lord Palmer was killed.”

  “And what if he was? It is not forbidden, is it? To entertain Mr Percy?”

  “Who precisely is Mr Percy?” Billings asked.

  “Mr Percy is a scholar, isn’t that right, mother?” Etherbridge responded with a smile. “He’s an expert on asceticism.”

  “Mr Percy is a very nice and charming young man,” Lady Palmer answered. “Why are you inquiring about him?”

  “We need to establish the movements of everyone who was in the house around the time of Lord Palmer’s death. We have yours, we have the servants’, but the Berkshire CID’s report makes no mention of Mr Percy.”

  “And why should Mr Percy be mentioned? You can’t possibly believe he has anything to do with this ghastly business?”

  “Mother, the police need to prove that it wasn’t him. They need to prove that nobody other than the vulgar man could have killed Lord Palmer. That is why he is inquiring about Mr Percy. Isn’t that right, Mr Billings?”

  “That is right.”

  “Well, you can take my word for it, Mr Billings,” said Lady Palmer, putting down her pince-nez and returning to the newspaper. “Mr Percy is a deeply religious and highly moralistic man. He cannot possibly be connected with my husband’s death.”

  “What was Lord Palmer’s connection to Mr Percy?”

  “Mr Percy came to Sutton House to look at the hermit,” said Etherbridge. “That’s where he met Lord Palmer. They struck up a conversation and Lord Palmer became fascinated by Mr Percy’s knowledge of ascetics. He invited him back to the house several times so that he could teach him more about the history of asceticism.”

  “He was a very knowledgeable young man,” Lady Palmer added. “And he told us such fascinating stories. What is the name of that man, Arthur, who sat on a pillar for thirty-seven years?”

  “Simeon Stylites,” Etherbridge replied.

  Lady Palmer clapped her hands with delight. “That’s the one. Simeon Stylites. Can you imagine it, Mr Billings? At the time of the Romans, this man climbed up a tall pillar, built a small platform on it and remained there for thirty-seven years. Thirty-seven years! Can you believe it? He never came down. Parcels of food were winched up to him daily. And he was visited every day by dozens of pilgrims and spectators. Isn’t that wonderful? Such idiotic things people do in the name of religion!”

  “Mr Percy wanted to write a book about the history of ascetics and was looking for a patron,” Etherbridge continued. “Lord Palmer and Mr Percy discussed a possible patronage for a while, but the relationship soured over a disagreement about Lochrane.”

  “What kind of disagreement?” Billings asked.

  “Mr Percy agreed with me that Lochrane was a vulgar man,” Lady Palmer replied.

  “Mr Percy considered the whole custom of employing an ornamental hermit to be vulgar and farcical,” Etherbridge added. “He said that offering a financial reward for someone to complete a year of seclusion was entirely contrary to the idea of monasticism and that Lord Palmer’s experiment was nothing more than a freak show. Lord Palmer took great offence to that.”

  “The pompous old fool!” Lady Palmer interrupted.

  “He sent Mr Percy away there and then. And that was the last you ever saw of him, isn’t it, Mother?”

  “Oh, it was terrible, Mr Billings,” Lady Palmer continued. “They were shouting at each other. Mr Percy accused my husband of wasting his time, of leading him on, of taking advantage of his vast knowledge with false promises of a patronage. He was so very angry, Mr Billings.”

  “Where did he go to?” Billings asked.

  “Well, back to his home I assume.”

  “Where is his home?”

  “Percy Street in St Clement’s,” Lady Palmer answered with a smile. “Isn’t that funny? Clement Percy lived in Percy Street in St Clement’s. He told us that he was looking for rooms in Oxford and when he stumbled upon that address he decided to stay.”

  “He said it was providence,” Etherbridge added.

  “Isn’t that amusing, Mr Billings?” Lady Palmer asked.

  Billings was not amused, but smiled back politely. He didn’t believe the story about Mr Percy finding an address with his name. Rather, he suspected that Mr Percy wasn’t Mr Percy at all and that he had used the address as a pseudonym.

  “Where had Mr Percy acquired all his knowledge about asceticism?” he asked.

  “He studied divinities in Oxford,” Etherbridge answered. “That is to say, he started studying divinities, but stopped after an argument with his parents from whom he became estranged. He was largely self-taught after that.”

  “Do you know where he studied?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. Do you, Mother?”

  “No.”

  “Could it have been Wycliffe Hall?” Billings guessed.

  “I really don’t know.”

  *

  Billings took the 9.52 to Oxford. It was a long shot, but he had nothing else to do that day and the coincidence he had stumbled upon was too significant to ignore. He had never heard of asceticism until he started reading Sebastian’s diary. What were the chances of encountering two young men with the same fascination? Could Clement Percy and Sebastian Forrester be one and the same? And if so, was Sebastian somehow connected with Lord Palmer’s death? It seemed unlikely, and yet…

  He felt a pang of jealousy and resentment as he saw the towers and spires of Oxford approaching through the window. What a decadent luxury it was to spend all one’s time and money studying such an obscure subject. He remembered the comment Bertie Green had made in Sutton House. ”People with money have different interests than us ordinary folks.” What would he have studied if he’d been given the same opportunities as Sebastian, Billings wondered. What career would he have pursued if he wasn’t forced to join the police force ten years ago in a desperate attempt to leave the Forresters’ oppressive home?

  He was still pondering these thoughts when he alighted at Oxford Station and started making his way to the parish of St Clement’s. He saw a group of jovial students walking towards him as he passed Magdalene College. He noted how handsome they all were and how they all strode towards him with that same air of confidence and entitlement that only the privileged possessed. They reminded him of Sebastian. Glorious young titans, the lot of them. He suddenly felt a mixture of awe and infatuation as he watched them approach. The students glanced at him then started laughing with each other. Were they laughing at him, Billings wondered. Even now he felt short, pale and scrawny when he compared himself to these titans. He was conscious of his moth-eaten hat and his coatsleeves stained with boot polish. He lowered his head as they approached and shuffled quickly past them. Why did he always feel so inferior amongst the rich? He was one of the youngest detectives in Scotland Yard, for goodness’ sake! An extraordinary achievement after only ten years of service. When would he finally recover from his childhood trauma?

  As he walked on towards Magdalene Bridge, he suddenly saw a familiar man leaning against the railings. He was a
young, thin man with a long grey overcoat and a derby hat. He was smoking a cigarette and looking straight at him.

  “Good morning Mr Billings,” he said and nodded as Billings walked past. “Fancy bumping into you here.”

  Billings nodded back politely and walked on, wondering all the time who the man was. It was only after he had crossed the bridge that he remembered. It was Jeremiah Rook, the journalist who had written that scathing article about him. What was he doing in Oxford?

  On the other side of Magdalene Bridge lay the parish of St Clement’s. Oxford students did not venture here. The people who walked here walked hunched, with their heads down and their eyes averted. This is where the poor people lived; the college porters, the university waiters, the gardeners, the cooks. Billings continued walking down Iffley Road towards Percy Street, which was lined on both sides by dilapidated terraced cottages. Clement Percy lodged at number 8. He learned this from a char woman he stopped in the street. Number 8 was one of the houses she cleaned. But she didn’t clean Mr Percy’s room. “Mr Percy only pays for lodgings and not for service,” she told him. Billings walked on towards the cottage and rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a thin, middle-aged woman with a big nose. Her hands were covered in flour and she was wiping them on her apron.

  “Yes?” she said, frowning.

  “My name is Detective Sergeant John Billings from the Metropolitan Police. I am looking for Mr Percy.”

  “Metropolitan Police, eh? It’s about time you fellas got involved.”

  Billings was confused by this comment and didn’t reply.

  “I don’t know how many times I’ve spoken to the Oxford Police,” the woman continued, “and each time they’ve given me the same reply. ‘This is not a police matter, Mrs Warburton,’ they keep saying, ‘Mr Percy is a grown man and England is a free country. He has the right to disappear.’ ‘But not when he still owes me a crown in rent!’ I keep telling them. Anyway, I see they’ve finally passed the case on to Scotland Yard.”