BILLINGS KNEW, OF COURSE, that Ruth Grenfell was a madwoman. He’d suspected this much when he met her in the guise of Madam Bovlatska. The diminutive woman was always filled with a nervous energy and had a bewildered look in her brown eyes. Her strange, disjointed behaviour the other night, when she claimed to have been followed by men in black suits, was a clear symptom of paranoia, possibly brought on by the hallucinogenic elements of the absinthe she was so fond of drinking.
But Billings had been moody and lethargic ever since leaving Scotland Yard, and he needed something to get him out of his head and stop him from feeling sorry for himself. And anyway, he was intrigued by Grenfell’s disappearance and concerned about her wellbeing. So, he took an underground train to Aldgate. Someone there might be able to decipher the strange symbols on the mirror.
He climbed the steps of the great synagogue, stopped in the doorway and looked in. A teenage boy stood on a ladder at the front of the building, topping up the oil of the sanctuary lamp.
“Excuse me,” Billings called, unsure of whether, as a gentile, he was allowed to set foot inside the building.
This startled the boy. He wobbled on his ladder and nearly fell off it.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Billings said. “I just wonder if you could do me a favour.”
The boy, stable again, gaped silently at him.
“I have a text here which I need translating.” He took the notepad out of his breast pocket and held it out to him. “Would you like to read it?”
The boy continued to stare blankly.
“I think it’s Hebrew. You do speak Hebrew, don’t you?”
The boy did not respond.
“He doesn’t speak English.”
The voice came from outside the synagogue. Billings turned to see an old man sitting on one of the steps. He wore a black suit and a homburg hat. His long, thick white hair was tied into a ponytail. A long grey beard reached to his chest.
“The boy is fresh off the boat from Poland,” the man said. “He’s not used to being spoken to by gentiles. What do you want?”
Billings approached the man with the notepad. “I need someone to translate a short phrase into English. Do you speak Hebrew?”
“I hope so,” the man said. “I am a rabbi.” He took the notepad off the detective and looked at the writing. “Where did you get this from?”
“It was on the back of a small pocket mirror.” Billings sat down beside him.
“Was it your mirror?”
“No. A woman dropped it on the floor. I want to return it to her, but I don’t know who she is. I’m hoping the inscription might help me to identify her.”
The man looked at Billings. His intense blue eyes stood out against his tanned, leathery skin and black bushy eyebrows. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“Me?” Billings looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not English.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You look like you don’t belong here.”
Billings laughed uncomfortably. “Well, I hope I do. I am English.”
“But you weren’t born here.”
“No.”
The man squinted and peered into Billings’ eyes. The intensity of the stare made Billings want to look away.
“You’re a wanderer,” the man said.
“A wanderer?”
“I recognise a wanderer when I see one. Most Jews are wanderers. Wandering aimlessly in a county where they don’t belong. You were born in Africa, weren’t you?”
Billings raised his eyebrow. “How did you know that?”
“Your mind speaks to me. It is speaking to me now, but I don’t understand.” He squinted again and cocked his head. “Lahy Fotsy. What does it mean?”
Billings’ heart suddenly leapt to his throat. “How did you know that phrase?”
“I told you. Your mind speaks to me. It’s Malagasy, isn’t it? What were you doing in Madagascar?”
“My father was a missionary. I was born there.”
“You are a son of Cain.”
Billings shook his head. “No. My father’s name was Gideon. Gideon Billings.”
The man shrugged. “According to the scriptures, we are all descended from Cain, Abel or Seth. And you, like me, are a son of Cain. Adam and Eve’s firstborn, banished to the land of Nod, condemned to wander the world. Did you know that the word Nod means vagabond? You are a son of Cain. All wanderers are.” He handed Billings back the notepad. “The inscription says daughter of Lilith.”
“Daughter of Lilith? That must be the woman’s mother.”
“I suppose so.” The man laughed. “She’s the daughter of Lilith; you’re the son of Cain.”
Billings smiled back politely.
“Well, I suppose I’d better take the mirror to the lost and found department at Scotland Yard.” He nodded at the man. “Thank you very much for your help.”
He got up and started walking away. The man called after him.
“It was nice talking to you, Mr Billings.”
Billings stopped. “How do you know my name?”
“You told me. You said your father was Gideon Billings.”
Billings smiled. “Of course.” He tipped his hat at him. “Goodbye and thank you again.”
3. Under a Cloud
They sat on a park bench, half hidden from sight by the broad leaves of a chestnut tree. Through the park fence they had a clear view of Mr Doucet’s house.
“He knew immediately upon seeing me that I did not belong here,” Billings said.
Trotter thought about this. “But you do belong here, Mr Billings.”
“Yes, but I was born in Africa, and I’ve never felt at home in England.”
“Well, perhaps there was something about your demeanour which suggested that.”
“Like what?”
Trotter shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“It wasn’t just that, Trotter. He used a certain phrase. A phrase I haven’t heard since I was a boy.”
“What did he say?”
“Lahy Fotsy.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s Malagasy. It means ‘white boy’. The local children used to call me that.”
“Well, perhaps he just happened to know that phrase. Did he know you were raised in Madagascar?”
“No.”
Trotter wrinkled his brow. “Well, I’m sorry, Mr Billings, but I simply can’t believe it. There must be a rational explanation.”
“I tell you, Trotter, there was something about that rabbi. The way he looked at me. It was unsettling.”
“What about Mrs Grenfell? Did you find out anything more about her?”
“No.” Billings saw some movement outside Doucet’s house. “Here we go. That’s her.” He nudged his companion.
Trotter peered from behind his spectacles at a woman stepping out of the house. He squinted. “How do you know it’s her?”
“Who else could it be?”
“It could be the lady of the house.”
“I doubt the lady of the house would wear a coat as frazzled as that.”
“But she’s leaving through the front door. If it were the maid, wouldn’t she be exiting through the back entrance?”
“It’s her. Now get up and follow her.”
“What about you?”
“I will follow you. Now hurry up and make sure you stay on the opposite side of the street.”
Trotter got up and rushed out of the park.
Billings followed them down Park Road, over Battersea Bridge and onto Chelsea Embankment, where the maid stopped at a flower stall and bought a bunch of flowers. With the flowers in her hand, she continued at a brisk pace down King’s Road and stopped at a house on the corner of Upper Manor Street. She rang the bell and was swiftly let in.
Trotter took a pencil and notepad out of his pocket and began making some notes.
“You’re being very indiscreet.” Billings placed his hand on Trotter’s bac
k and pushed him down the street. “Make sure you’re out of your target’s sight before you start making notes.”
They stopped a few steps away from the house and leaned against a lamp post.
Trotter continued with his notes.
“What are you writing?” Billings asked.
“The address.”
“What else must we mention in Mr Doucet’s report?”
Trotter thought about this.
“Did you see who opened the door?” Billings asked.
“A woman.”
“What kind of woman?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see her face. All I saw was a dress.”
“Describe the dress.”
“It was black. Perhaps it was a servant.”
“Or a widow,” Billings added.
Trotter wrote down: Servant? Widow?
“What else?”
Trotter wrinkled his brow.
“Look at the houses on this street. What kind of people live here?”
Trotter looked around him and scratched his head.
“Rich? Poor?”
“Neither rich nor poor, I should say.”
“Do you think this is Miss Bunton’s home?”
“Not likely, if she’s a maid.”
“Whose house is it, then?”
Trotter’s eyes lit up. “It must be her lover’s! She’s visiting her lover. That’s why Mr Doucet wants us to follow her. He wants to know whether his maid has a lover.”
Billings frowned. “Women don’t normally buy flowers for their lovers. Usually it’s the other way round.”
“Well, a friend, then. Or a family member. A widowed aunt, perhaps. Or a grandmother.”
“Write that down.”
Trotter did as instructed.
Billings opened his satchel and pulled out a cap and scarf. “Put this on,” he said, handing him the items.
“What for?”
Billings took out a parcel and handed it to his assistant. “And take this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a book. I wrapped it up this morning. I’m going to teach you a little trick. You’re going to pretend to be a bookshop’s assistant.”
Trotter smiled. “That’s not hard to do.”
“You have to deliver this newly bought book to the person who lives at that house, but you forgot their name. You need to write the name on the parcel to prevent it from being opened by anyone else. Knock on one of the neighbours’ doors and ask. Once I have a name, I can figure out the rest.”
Trotter took the parcel and carried out his instructions. He came back shortly afterwards, grinning broadly. “Mrs Moorhouse,” he said. “A widow. Lives alone.”
“Well, write that down.”
Trotter took out his pencil and pressed it against the parcel.
Billings frowned. “Not on the parcel, you fool! In the notebook.” He took the parcel off him and replaced it in his satchel. “We’re not really giving her this book. I haven’t finished reading it yet.”
Trotter laughed. “Thank you.” He made the notes in his notebook. “I’m learning a lot from you. I’m really very grateful.”
Billings frowned. He never could take a compliment.
They waited.
Trotter fidgeted restlessly. There was clearly something on his mind. Finally, he blurted it out. “Mr Billings, I, um... I have a question for you.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve asked you before, but I never really got an answer.” He paused, unsure of himself.
Billings raised his eyebrows. “Well?”
“Why did you leave Scotland Yard?”
Billings frowned. Oh, God. Not that again. “I wanted a change,” he said.
“But it’s not much of a change, is it? I mean, you’re still doing detective work.”
“But I am my own boss now.”
“So, you didn’t get along with your boss?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, then why did you leave?”
“I just wanted a change, that’s all.”
“The reason I ask is because I’ve been speaking about you to a friend.”
Billings raised his eyebrows. “A friend?”
“He works as a police officer. I told him I got a job working for John Billings’ detective firm, and he said he’s heard speak of you.”
“He knows me?”
“No, he doesn’t know you. But he’s heard other officers speak of you. They’re all speculating about why you left.”
“Are they now?” Billings took a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket. He’d taken up smoking after giving up the morphine. Not much of a substitute, but it was better than nothing. “And what precisely did he say about me?” He popped a cigarette in his mouth and lit it.
“They say you left under a cloud.”
“And what kind of cloud would that be?”
“I don’t know, Mr Billings. I’m just telling you what he said.”
“Well, thank you for informing me.” He blew a puff of smoke in the air and tapped the ashes on the ground.
“It makes no difference to me, of course,” Trotter continued. “I have formed my own opinions of you.”
“And what are your opinions of me?”
“Well, you seem like a decent enough chap. A little lazy, perhaps. You don’t seem particularly interested in getting new clients. But I put that down to your disgruntlement at being forced to leave the Metropolitan Police Service.”
Billings frowned. “How many times! I was not forced to leave.”
“Of course you were forced to leave. Nobody leaves Scotland Yard voluntarily.”
“If you think Scotland Yard is so great, then why don’t you become a policeman yourself?”
“Because they won’t have me. I’m too short and too fat and my eyesight is poor.”
Billings smiled. There was something very endearing about Trotter.
Suddenly he detected some movement at the house. “Here she is again,” he said. “Without the flowers. Make sure you make a note of that in your notepad.”
Trotter reached for the notepad, but Billings slapped his arm away.
“Not now. You have to follow her now.”
Trotter followed the woman down the road. Billings tagged along behind him.
They followed her to Sloane Square, where she stepped onto an omnibus to Islington.
“Can you handle the rest on your own?” Billings asked his assistant.
Trotter nodded.
“Well, on you hop, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
LATER THAT NIGHT, BILLINGS sat at his desk, writing his report for Mr Doucet. He turned up the collar of his dressing gown to protect himself from the draft, which seemed to penetrate the glass. Outside, another fight had broken out. This was Billings’ fourth night in his new home, and he no longer felt compelled to rush to the window and find out what was going on.
He finished his report – or at least, as much of it as he could before Trotter returned with his findings – replaced his pen in the inkwell and got up.
Snuffing out the candles, he took off his dressing gown and snuggled beneath the sheets on the chaise-longue. As he began to doze off, he heard a strange noise. Hurried footsteps on the stairs came to a stop outside his room. He lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. A letter was slipped under his door. Billings jumped up and rushed towards it. He picked it up. On the envelope was written: to Mr John Billings. He opened it and pulled out a card. He read the following:
Unforgiven by a forgiving God
Bearing thy mark of shame
Like a whipped cur I wander Nod
Howling thy Holy name
It was not jealousy that I felt
When upon Abel I bore
The anger which within me welled
Had this at its core:
I had offered Thee all that I could;
The bloom of my soil I lay at Thy door
Why you rejected me I never under
stood
For I loved Thee as my brother, nay I loved Thee more
To the sons of Cain, roaming the earth.
God has not rejected you. He has marked you to save you.
Your wanderings have not been in vain. He has a special purpose in mind for you.
Find out more at our meeting tomorrow at nine p.m.
Temple of Thoth, 86 St James Street.
Billings hurried towards the window. He was just able to see a man in a black suit rush out of the building and down the road.
4. At the Temple of Thoth
There was nothing temple-like about the building at 86 St James Street. It was a large, elegant, but perfectly ordinary house.
Billings checked the address on the card. It was correct. He shrugged and ascended the steps.
A man stood guard at the door. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’ve come to attend a meeting at the Temple of Thoth.” He suddenly felt stupid saying this.
The guard remained stone-faced. “Have you an invitation?”
“Yes.” Billings showed him the invitation card.
The guard nodded. He took a mask out of a canvas bag beside him and handed it to Billings. “Put this on.”
Billings looked at the mask – a white and blue falcon. “What is this?”
The guard shrugged. “They want all invitees to put one on. The meeting is in the ballroom downstairs.”
Billings put on the mask and entered the building.
He descended towards the cellar and stopped at the doorway of a large room. Wooden benches stood against the wood-panelled walls, facing a large throne in the middle of the room. The black and white floor looked like a chess board. Small windows at the top let in some light, but the room was largely illuminated by an impressive crystal chandelier which held about fifty candles.
There were other people in the room. A woman with a black cat mask sat on one of the benches, playing with her gloves. Three men – a jackal, a crocodile and a monkey – stood apart from each other, quietly looking around them. Billings met the eye of the monkey. He nodded. Monkey nodded back.
Suddenly, a door in the panelled wall opened and a man walked in. He was dressed in a black suit and wore a bird mask – a green head with a long, curved beak. An ibis. He counted the assembled guests. Satisfied that all were present, he shut the door and walked towards the throne.
A Glimpse of Heaven Page 3