The Ornamental Hermit

by Olivier Bosman

  “I went to Rickmansworth to look for Barnabas Crooke. I’ve worked it all out.”

  Jacobs remained unflustered and unmoved. “I suppose you had better come in, then,” he said finally. He opened the front door and stepped aside to let the detective in. “Come into my office and have some brandy. You look like you can use a good, stiff drink.”

  *

  They were in Jacobs’s study. Jacobs was sitting at his desk and Billings was standing before him, like a chastened schoolboy in front of the headmaster. Billings was speaking and Jacobs was fingering the rim of his brandy glass as he listened.

  “I went to Rickmansworth to track down the man who assaulted me.” Billings looked around him as he spoke. The room was decorated with beautiful and expensive porcelain vases which were displayed on side tables and which contained dried flowers. The walls were lined with grand bookcases which were filled with leather-bound volumes. Most of them looked like they had never been read. Billings observed how the room looked even grander than that of Mr Forrester. “I didn’t catch Barnabas Crooke, but I did learn some things about him. I learned, for instance, that he is a duffer. One of several in the country who sell their ware to Bhodan Krym – better known to the criminal fraternity as Florence. Krym being the Russian word for Crimea and Florence Nightingale being the most famous personage connected with that peninsula. The stolen jewels you found in Deptford were part of that ware. He was intending to smuggle them back to Russia to sell.”

  “I know all about Bhodan Krym,” Jacobs interrupted impatiently. “What has any of this to do with me?”

  “The discovery of the counterfeiters’ stash couldn’t have occurred at a more opportune moment for you, could it, Mr Jacobs?”

  “Couldn’t it?” Jacobs replied, looking down at his glass and swirling the drink within it. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you were very much in debt at the time.”

  “Ah.” Jacobs smiled wryly, but still would not raise his head and look Billings in the eye.

  “I know the debts have now been paid off,” Billings continued. “I learned this from a comment your wife made when I visited you yesterday and interrupted your visitor.” Billings paused and stared at Jacobs, forcing him to lift his head and meet his look. “Who was that visitor, Mr Jacobs?” he asked defiantly.

  Jacobs smiled. “I think you know perfectly well who that visitor was, Billings.”

  “Yes. I do. I recognized his long red coat which hung so conspicuously in the hallway. I remember Clarkson describing it to me. It was Bhodan Krym himself. You’ve been having dealings with Mr Krym for a while now, haven’t you? Tipping him off whenever an arrest was imminent. And receiving handsome rewards for your efforts. Handsome enough for you to be able to live in a house like this.”

  “No, that’s where you’re wrong, Billings.” Jacobs finally downed the brandy he’d been playing with and slammed the empty glass back on his desk. “The rewards aren’t handsome enough for that. No amount of pay-off is sufficient to support my wife’s expensive tastes.” He laughed bitterly. “But do go on with your story, Billings.” He took the brandy bottle on his desk and refilled his glass. “What has any of this to do with Barnabas Crooke?”

  “Two of the items which were found among the Deptford jewels are significant, because they link Bhodan Krym’s counterfeiting operation with the murder of Lord Palmer. The gold watch engraved with date palms and a cameo ring of a Greek warrior. These are the jewels which were stolen from Lord Palmer after he was killed. Whoever stole those jewels must have sold them to Krym.”

  “And you believe that person to be Barnabas Crooke?”

  “Yes. Crooke was known to Sebastian Forrester. They met in Whitehaven several years ago. And Crooke had a boat – the Ryckmer – which he could have used to enter Lord Palmer’s estate with, by accessing it from the river side. I believe Crooke may well be responsible for Lord Palmer’s murder. Quite how the killing occurred and whether Crooke’s encounter with Sebastian was premeditated or by chance, I do not know. But I do know that Lord Palmer’s death was a serious inconvenience to Krym. One which could jeopardize both his plans and yours, which is why it was necessary to incriminate Lochrane as fast as possible. This explains your eagerness to obtain a swift identification and the confession which you extracted from him. My constant digging for the truth became worrisome to you, which is why you made every effort to send me away. When that didn’t work, Crooke was sent out to deal with me instead, although I like to think that that was on Krym’s orders rather than yours.”

  “But you do not have any proof for these allegations, do you, Billings?”

  “Not yet, sir. But I can get it.”

  “So why did you not do so before confessing your suspicions to me?”

  “I was hoping you’d do the honourable thing by confessing to all this yourself.”

  Jacobs burst out laughing. “Good old Billings!” he said. “Our Quaker detective! Always so righteous and honourable, aren’t you?”

  “It is not my intention to threaten you, Mr Jacobs,” Billings continued, ignoring the rebuke. “I want to help you rectify the situation before an innocent man is hanged. I don’t believe you’re a bad person. You’ve always been good to me and it is you I have to thank for my position in Scotland Yard. But your financial situation has made you desperate and desperation can lead you to do things which are foolish and reckless.”

  “Foolish and reckless?” Jacobs asked suddenly. He smiled mysteriously while he took a small key out of his jacket pocket.

  Billings was a little put off by Jacobs’s reaction, but he persevered. “You have dug yourself into a hole, Mr Jacobs, and I want to help you climb out of it.”

  “Well, that is very kind of you, Billings,” Jacobs answered, still smiling and toying with the key in his fingers. “That’s very gallant. And honourable. And altruistic.”

  There was a mocking tone to Jacobs’s retort and Billings didn’t know how to react to it.

  “But then you are a Quaker after all,” Jacobs continued in the same tone, still toying with the key. “And Quakers never do things which are foolish and reckless. Do they?”

  “We try not to,” Billings answered, unsure of where the conversation was heading.

  Suddenly Jacobs lifted his hand and held the key between his thumb and finger. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

  Billings looked confused, but didn’t answer.

  “This is the key to all of your sordid little secrets.”

  Billing continued to look confused as Jacobs inserted the key into the desk lock and pulled out the central drawer. When Billings saw Jacobs take a large, brown envelope out of the drawer, he knew exactly what it meant and for a few seconds his heart stopped beating.

  “Foolish and reckless, you called me?” Jacobs opened the envelope, removed the contents and displayed the pictures on the desk. There they were, those shameful photographs again. Billings couldn’t bring himself to look at them and turned his face away.

  Jacobs laughed. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Who would have thought it? Our Billings. A mandrake. An invert. A pancy. I always wondered why you stubbornly chose to remain a bachelor, but this explains it. Our Billings is a sodomite.”

  “Those photographs are misleading,” Billings said, still refusing to look at the pictures. “Nothing happened.”

  “It doesn’t look like nothing happened,” Jacobs replied, peering closer at the photographs. “What’s that boy doing on his knees? Polishing your shoes, is he?” he laughed.

  “I stopped him before anything occurred. You can’t prove anything untoward happened when that photograph was taken.”

  “I don’t need to prove that, Billings. I can prove you’ve been ordering obscene photographs. I can prove you’ve been frequenting a shop of ill repute. Whatever way you look at it, Billings, your career at Scotland Yard will be over, should this ever come out.”

  Billings didn’t reply. He was still looking away from the de
sk, his face was red and his eyes filled with shame and disgust.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Billings,” Jacobs said. His tone had changed now. There seemed to be a pang of sympathy in his voice.

  “Please put those photographs away, sir.”

  Jacobs gathered the pictures, slid them back into the envelope and replaced the parcel in the drawer. “There. They’re gone. Now grab a chair and sit down, Billings.”

  Billings walked towards the window, picked up a chair and placed it in front of the desk. He sat down in front of Jacobs, but continued to avoid his gaze.

  “We all do things we’re ashamed of,” Jacobs said gently. “It’s not easy being a police officer. Working ten, sometimes twenty hours a day for a measly wage. Being looked upon with hatred and suspicion by all. We work hard to catch criminals and collect the evidence, only to find all our efforts have been dismissed by the law courts and the criminal is set free. Free to rob again. Free to make more money with one act of deception than you and I can earn in a lifetime of service. It’s a hard job, Billings. But there can be some rewards, if you look the other way. Who cares about counterfeit roubles, eh? Let the Russians catch their own criminals. I got the jewels back, didn’t I? Surrender the British loot, I told Krym, and I will cooperate. And he did. Those jewels weren’t worth much to him anyway. It was the equipment he wanted. And the fake roubles. And the opportunity to continue making them in this country, unmolested by the police. That’s where his profit lies. So where’s the harm in that? Why should I not profit along with him? It’s a victimless crime, Billings.”

  “It is not a victimless crime. Sebastian Forrester will hang unless we help him.”

  Jacobs frowned. “Brendan Lochrane was half-dead already,” he answered gruffly.

  “His name is Sebastian Forrester.”

  “Brendan, Sebastian, what the devil does it matter! That smelly wretch died many years ago! He’s nothing but a walking corpse. We’d be doing him a favour, putting him out of his misery!”

  “He’s a family acquaintance and his mother is relying on me to set him free.”

  “So you will jeopardize your career? Face the ridicule of your peers and the outrage of the public? Risk being sentenced to six months hard labour for committing acts of obscenity and sodomy? All for the sake of a distant acquaintance?”

  “Sebastian Forrester is innocent. And I deserve all the punishment I get.”

  Jacobs went quiet and stared at Billings with a mixture of wonder and bewilderment. Billings was hunched forward on his chair, staring at the ground. He hadn’t looked Jacobs in the eye since the photographs were revealed. His left hand was trembling and everything about his appearance suggested dejection, shame, self-loathing. And yet… there was a defiant and determined look in his eye.

  “Well, well, well. A principled man,” Jacobs said eventually. “DS Billings, the Quaker detective. With love for everyone. Except for himself.”

  “I cannot be bought,” Billings said.

  “You can’t be bought, eh?”

  “No sir, I cannot!” Billings got up from his chair.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going home.” He put the chair back by the window and walked towards the door. “I’m going to wash, I’m going to change my clothes, I’m going to take a shot of morphine and I’m going to sleep. When I wake up tomorrow, I will go to work as usual. If you haven’t already confessed by then, I will knock on Superintendent McMurphy’s door myself and I will tell him all. Good night, Mr Jacobs.” And with that he left the room, leaving Jacobs looking puzzled and worried.

  *

  Billings was nervous when he came to work the following morning. The first thing he noticed when he entered the cloakroom were Jacobs’s coat and hat on the hatstand. His heart started pounding immediately. Jacobs was early. What could it mean, he wondered. Did he come in early so that he could talk to the superintendent and confess his misdeeds? Or was he preparing another plot to further sabotage Billings’s career? He had to see him right away. It would be impossible to carry on until this mess was resolved.

  With his heart thumping in his chest, he went over to Jacobs’s office and tapped nervously on the door. There was no reply. Billings knocked again, harder this time, but still there was no reply.

  “Mr Jacobs?” he called.

  His voice was trembling. He frowned. Pull yourself together, he thought. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Mr Jacobs? It’s Billings.”

  Still there was no reply. Billings turned the handle and started pushing the door open, but as he pushed he noticed something blocking it from the inside. He looked down and saw a body lying on the ground, right in front of the entrance. It was Jacobs, his bald head resting on the floor. Next to him lay his chair, which had also tumbled over.

  “Mr Jacobs, are you all right?” Billings cried, alarmed.

  His cry attracted the attention of one of the clerks who was passing by the corridor with some files in his hands. “Help me!” Billings called to him. “There’s something wrong with the Inspector!”

  The clerk put his files on the floor and together with Billings, they banged repeatedly against the door, pushing Jacobs’s body down bit by bit until there was enough room for Billings to squeeze through.

  As soon as Billings had slipped into the office, he knelt down beside Jacobs’s body. He could see straight away that Jacobs’s chest was going up and down. At least he’s still breathing, he thought.

  The clerk was still lingering in the doorway, looking alarmed and confused.

  “Don’t just stand there! Go get the surgeon!” Billings yelled.

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know! He must’ve had a heart attack or something! Just go!”

  As the clerk ran off to fetch the surgeon, Billings looked around the office. On Jacobs’s desk, he suddenly saw the culprit: a small bottle of arsenic, half-emptied. Also on the desk were two envelopes, carefully placed in plain view on either side of the bottle. One was a large brown envelope, the sight of which instantly made Billings’s stomach turn. He picked it up and opened it with trembling hands. Inside were the glass plate negatives which were used to make the compromising cabinet cards. A handwritten note slipped out of the envelope and floated down onto the desk. ‘Never let yourself be bought’ it said, in Jacobs’s spidery writing. Billings returned the negatives in the envelope and stuck the parcel in his satchel. He then turned his attention to the other envelope. It contained a letter, also written by Jacobs, in which he clearly and methodically detailed all his dealings with Bhodan Krym and his attempts at scapegoating Sebastian.

  *

  Billings and the clerk were standing in the superintendent’s office, watching McMurphy sitting at his desk, reading a letter.

  “I understand that it was you who urged him to write this letter?” McMurphy said, waving Jacobs’s letter in the air.

  “Yes, sir,” Billings replied. “I saw him at his house yesterday.”

  “And what did you talk to him about?”

  “Well, I told him I knew about his plot with Bhodan Krym. And I urged him to confess to it to you.”

  “Why?” McMurphy asked suspiciously.

  “Because an innocent man’s life was at stake. How is Mr Jacobs, sir? Is he all right?”

  “Never you mind how he is!” McMurphy turned towards the office clerk. “And what about you?”

  “What about me, sir?”

  “Are you involved in this plot?”

  “Plot, sir?”

  “This blackmailing plot?”

  Billings’s heart leapt at the mention of that word. It had never occurred to him that his meeting with Jacobs could be construed as blackmail.

  “No, sir. I have nothing to do with this!” The office clerk turned to give Billings a nasty look. “I was merely passing by when the sergeant called for my assistance and...”

  “Please, sir,” Billings interrupted. “I wasn’t trying to blackmail him. I was merely tr
ying to...”

  “Be quiet!” McMurphy slammed his fist on his desk. “You can go now,” he said to the office clerk. “I’d like to talk Sergeant Billings on my own.” He mentioned the detective’s name as if he were uttering an obscenity.

  “Yes, sir.” The office clerk gave Billings one last nasty look before leaving the office.

  “Please, sir. You must tell me how Inspector Jacobs is doing,” Billings asked again. “I am very concerned.”

  “He’s having his stomach pumped out as we speak.”

  “I never expected he’d do something like this.”

  “What did you expect? Or should I ask how much?”

  Billings frowned. “I am telling you, sir. It had not been my intention to blackmail him.”

  “Well, then what was your intention?”

  “I had discovered that Inspector Jacobs had become embroiled in an illicit plot with Bhodan Krym and I wanted to give him an opportunity of explaining himself before alerting you.”

  “This... um...” He picked up a file from his desk and scanned through it. “Sebastian Forrester – aka Brendan Lochrane – aka The Wild Man of Sutton Courtenay. This is a friend of yours, I believe.”

  “He is a family acquaintance.”

  “He confessed to killing Lord Palmer.”

  “That confession was induced from him by Inspector Jacobs. He retracted it later.”

  “That’s right. That’s what this is.” He held up a bunch of papers. It was the letter which Sebastian had written in his prison cell. The six or so tightly packed pages which explained how he had turned from a passionate young man to a wretched recluse. Billings had been desperate to read his account ever since he had encouraged him to write it, but Jacobs had kept it locked in his drawer all this time.

  “Didn’t you visit him in his cell the day that this was written?” McMurphy looked at the date on the letter. “Friday, December the first?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “And wasn’t it upon your recommendation that he wrote it?”