Rachel Bunton was a sweet, charming girl. She came in every day to help clean the house. My housekeeper convinced me that the house was too big for the other maid to keep clean on her own, and that she knew a girl from a good family which had hit on hard times. So, I employed her.
Rachel was young, naive and impressionable, and my father was quick to home in on her and try to convert her to his new religion. When my housekeeper heard that my father was practicing dark magic, she became concerned, and she confessed to me all that had happened. She made it known to me that she suspected Rachel of visiting him after her shift. We asked Rachel about it, of course, and she denied everything, but neither my housekeeper nor I were convinced.
So, I hired a detective to follow her. I’d heard of John Billings – I can’t remember how. He was said to be discreet and had his office in Spitalfields, which was far enough removed from anyone I knew. I’m expecting to receive his reports any time soon. I suggest you speak to him immediately. He was following her. He is bound to know more.
BILLINGS CLOSED THE file and looked up at Clarkson, who sat opposite him at the dining table.
“Did you speak to Miss Bunton’s parents?”
Clarkson nodded. “Yes. They were distraught, of course. They had no idea something had happened to her. Apparently, it was not unusual for her not to come home. She’d often stay at her cousin’s.”
“Mrs Moorhouse?”
“Yes. Particularly if her cousin was feeling unwell.”
“And did you speak to Mrs Moorhouse?”
“Of course. All the reports are in the file, Billings. Mrs Moorhouse claims that she was not feeling unwell and that Miss Bunton had left her house at the usual time.”
“What did she look like, Mrs Moorhouse?”
Clarkson shrugged. “I don’t know. Ordinary. A respectable middle-aged lady.”
“She seems to be better off than the rest of the family.”
“She married well. Her husband was a railway engineer. Died twenty years ago. She has a good pension.”
Billings raised his eyebrows. “He died twenty years ago and she’s still wearing a mourning dress?”
Clarkson looked confused. “She wasn’t wearing a mourning dress when I spoke to her. She wore a purple skirt and a white blouse.”
“When Trotter followed Miss Bunton, he reported seeing a woman in a black dress open the door. He said it looked like a mourning dress. Does she live alone?”
“Yes. Alone with her dog, Gigi. Pesky little ankle-biter!”
“Perhaps it was a maid, then.”
“She has no maid.”
“No maid?”
“A charwoman cleans her house twice a week. She has no need for a maid, she says.”
“Well, then who was the woman that Trotter saw opening the door?”
Clarkson shrugged. “A neighbour, perhaps. Anyway, it don’t matter. Mrs Moorhouse is not important.”
“Of course she’s important. Mrs Moorhouse is the last person known to have seen Miss Bunton alive.”
“Actually...” Clarkson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Flynt thinks you’re the last person to have seen Miss Bunton alive.”
“Flynt?”
“My boss. You remember Flynt, don’t you?”
Billings frowned. “How can I forget him,” he mumbled.
“He’s not satisfied with the explanation you gave about your whereabouts on that night.”
“I told you. I was in Lambeth, attending a meeting of the Sons of Cain.”
“I know. But you cannot provide any witnesses.”
“Because the others were all wearing masks. So, Flynt thinks I killed her?”
Clarkson frowned. “No, nobody’s saying that. He’s just not happy with your explanation.”
“What reason have I got to kill Miss Bunton?”
“None. Except...” Clarkson stopped.
“Except what?”
“Well... according to Doucet, you were supposed to be shadowing her. And you did attend meetings of the Sons of Cain. And there’s a precedent.”
“A precedent?”
“Well, that is what Flynt says.”
“What kind of precedent?”
“Well, that business last year with the Hirsch brothers. When the man we’d been looking for all that time turned out to be your... um...”
Billings frowned. “So, what’s our next move?”
“Well, you really need to come up with a better alibi, old chap. Is there no way you can trace the other attendees?”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
BILLINGS STOOD IN THE narrow brick lane in Lambeth, staring at the abandoned mill where the meeting had taken place. He remembered the trepidation he’d felt when he wandered these dark alleys with a pocket full of cash. The place didn’t feel so threatening in broad daylight. The mill looked ordinary and nondescript. Just a large empty space, surrounded by orange brick walls, with swallow nests under the eaves and puddles on the floor. Was this really that enchanting and wondrous place where Ibis spoke about Elizabethan wizards and a magical angel language?
He’d asked some workers about the mill. They all told him the same thing. The building had been abandoned for as long as they remembered. Nobody knew what it was used for. Nobody had ever seen anybody go into it.
Billings frowned. How the devil was he going to find an alibi! He knew nothing about the other people who’d been present. Except... He did know that Mrs Cat was born in Bath. And that she was thirty-nine years old. And that her husband was called Reginald. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Billings took a deep breath and shuffled forlornly to Chelsea town hall, where a long and tedious job awaited him: looking through the birth register for girls born in Bath in 1856 and then checking if any of them had married a man named Reginald.
It took Billings and Trotter nearly a whole week to get a result. A whole week of paging through large leather-bound registers, peering at smudged, ink-stained names and dates, copying them down in their notebooks and cross checking them with the marriage records. But it was worth it, for they came up with a very surprising result.
Mabel Anne Treves was born in Bath on the 19th of May 1856. And in 1873, she married Mr Reginald Moorhouse, a railway engineer who died in India two years later.
11. Mrs Moorhouse’s Secret
On the corner of King’s Road and Upper Manor Street, Billings knocked on Mrs Moorhouse’s door. No answer. He stepped back a few paces and stared at the second-storey window. He saw somebody moving behind the net curtains, pacing about the room. Nervously. Restlessly.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Mrs Moorhouse. I know you’re in. I need to speak to you.”
The figure behind the net curtains stopped. She seemed to hesitate. She shook her head then continued pacing.
“Mrs Moorhouse, please! It’s important.”
Finally, the curtains were drawn. The woman opened the lower sash and stuck her head out of the window. “What is it you want?”
She was a middle-aged woman with a chubby face and cheeks which trembled when she spoke. Mousy brown hair with grey streaks was tied into a bun on the top of her head. Her face was pale and worried.
“I’m sorry to bother you. My name is John Billings. Could you come down, please? I need to speak to you about something important.”
“I will not come down. What is it?”
“We have met before.”
“No, we haven’t. I do not know you, sir.”
“I assure you that we have. But we were wearing...” He stopped. He was fully aware that in a street like this, the neighbours would be listening to the unfolding spectacle from their living rooms. “Please, won’t you come down, Mrs Moorhouse.”
“I told you, I will not come down. Either you tell me your business right now, or you can clear off!”
“I need to talk to you about an event which we both attended.”
The woman’s face stiffened.
She looked frightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want nothing more to do with you and your people!”
A young man stepped out of the house across the street. “Are you all right, Mrs Moorhouse?”
“No, I’m not! This man’s bothering me. Go and fetch a constable.”
Billings frowned. “There’s no need for that, Mrs Moorhouse.”
“Go!” the woman said, waving her neighbour away.
The young man ran down the street.
The woman pulled her head back in and closed the window.
Billings frowned. There was nothing else for it. It wouldn’t do to be arrested by a policeman. He shuffled off, disheartened.
BILLINGS RETURNED LATER that same day with Clarkson. He kept his distance as Clarkson knocked on Mrs Moorhouse’s door, keen not to be seen by her when she looked out of the window.
Mrs Moorhouse stuck out her head.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Moorhouse. It’s Detective Sergeant Clarkson.” He took his badge out of his coat pocket and lifted it for the woman to see.
“We’ve met before, Detective Sergeant. What do you want?”
“I’d like to speak to you, if I may.”
Mrs Moorhouse frowned and scanned the street up and down. “I’ll be right down,” she said and popped her head back in.
Billings smiled. Clarkson had used the right tactic. Nobody wants the neighbours to see you arguing with the police. He joined his companion at the doorway. As soon as Mrs Moorhouse opened the door, they barged into the house
“What is the meaning of this?” The woman frowned with confusion as she looked from Clarkson to Billings. “What is that man doing here?”
“This is John Billings. He’s helping me with my investigation. We’d like to ask you a few more questions.” Clarkson pointed at the stairs. “May we go up to your rooms?”
The woman hesitated. “Well... will it take long?”
“It’ll take as long as it needs.” Clarkson turned his back on her and ascended the stairs. Mrs Moorhouse followed reluctantly, Billings behind her.
“I’ll come straight out with it,” Clarkson said as they entered the living room. “Have you ever heard of the Sons of Cain and Daughters of Lilith?”
Mrs Moorhouse looked at Billings. She looked scared.
“I take that as a yes,” Clarkson said.
Mrs Moorhouse sat down on the sofa. Her face was pale. She began spinning her thumbs restlessly. “Please don’t ask me about that society, Detective Sergeant. I’m not allowed to speak about them.”
“Why not?”
“It was a condition for joining them.”
“So, you admit that you are a member?”
“Yes, but I won’t say anymore.”
Clarkson pointed at his companion. “You have met Mr Billings before.”
She looked at him. “He was here this morning, but I’ve no idea who he is.”
“I wore a falcon’s mask when we met,” Billings clarified.
“Oh. That was you, was it?”
“We believe that the Sons of Cain are in some way connected with the death of Rachel Bunton.”
“I told you, I can’t talk about it.”
“But you don’t seem surprised by my theory.”
“Please don’t ask me any more. I don’t want to end up like Rachel.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that they will kill me too if I speak.”
“But you’re safe with us. Nobody will know.”
She looked at Billings. “He’ll know.”
“But you can trust Billings. He’s not a member anymore, are you, Billings?”
“I’ve been attacked by them myself.” Billings lifted his wounded hand and showed her.
“Why do you think the Sons of Cain killed your cousin?” Clarkson asked.
Mrs Moorhouse pressed her lips together and looked away.
“You must speak, Mrs Moorhouse. If you’re in danger, we can help you.”
Silence.
Billings looked around him. It was a small apartment. Peach-coloured paper on the walls; matching flowery material on the sofa and chairs; small palms and aspidistras by the window bay; a dark oak dining table with elegantly carved legs; a white embroidered table cloth, and on it a white china teapot with purple flowers and two pairs of matching cups and saucers. Both of them still had some tea in them.
“Did you just have a visitor?” Billings asked.
“A visitor? No.”
He gestured at the teacups on the table.
“Oh, that. Yes, a neighbour came for tea.”
“When did the neighbour leave?”
“Shortly before you arrived.”
Billings looked at his pocket watch. “So, ten minutes ago?”
Mrs Moorhouse shrugged. “If you say so.”
Billings looked around again. By the door he saw a hat-stand; on it were two long coats and two hats.
“Are you here on your own, Mrs Moorhouse?”
“Yes.”
Billings gestured at the hat-stand. “Then why are there two coats and two hats on the hat-stand?”
“It’s not unusual for a woman to have two coats and two hats, is it?”
Billings pointed at the two doors in the hallway.
“What’s in there?” he asked.
“My bedroom.”
“And the other one?”
“A spare room. In case I have guests.”
“May I look inside?”
“No, you may not!”
Billings ignored her and marched towards the hallway.
Mrs Moorhouse sat up, alarmed. “What are you doing?”
Billings opened the first door. An ordinary woman’s bedroom. Empty. He went towards the second door.
“Do not go in there!” Mrs Moorhouse turned towards Clarkson. “Stop him, Detective Sergeant! You have no warrant.”
“She’s right, Billings. Perhaps you should...”
Before Clarkson was able to finish his sentence, Billings swung the second door open. Another bedroom, with a single bed. But sitting on the bed was a woman wearing a black mourning dress. She stared at him, frightened and shocked.
Billings stared back at the brown eyes, the thin white hair, the leathery skin. It was Mrs Grenfell.
“YOU MUSTN’T SAY ANYTHING.” Mrs Grenfell was sitting on the sofa, sipping a cup of tea. Mrs Moorhouse sat next to her. Billings and Clarkson remained standing. Each of them was holding a steaming cup of tea in their hands, which they needed to help them recover from the shock.
“They’ll kill me if they find me.”
“Who will kill you?” Clarkson asked.
“The men in black suits. Mr Doucet’s cronies.”
Clarkson raised his eyebrows. “Mr Doucet?”
“He’s the one behind all of this. He killed Rachel, and now he’s trying to kill me.” She looked at Billings’ bandaged hand. “I can see that they’ve had a go at you too.”
“Why does Mr Doucet want to kill you?”
“Coz I have something he wants.”
“What?”
Mrs Grenfell shook her head and put her face in her hands. “Oh, how can I possibly begin to explain? You know nothing about the world we live in.”
“What do you mean by that?” By the stiffening of Clarkson’s face, Billings could tell that he was offended.
“There are two worlds, Detective Sergeant Clarkson. In the world you live in, there’s a place for everyone, and everyone remains in their place. It is a world of logic, a world governed by the laws of physics and nature. But there is another world, existing alongside yours, and that’s the world I inhabit. Mrs Moorhouse does too. It is a world of magic, of ghosts, of things unseen, of wonder. I see you looking at me with that disapproving frown, Detective Sergeant. You think I’m a batty old fool, don’t you?”
“I thought no such thing!”
“But I dare say Mr Billings understands me.” She turned to face him. “Coz you’ve caught
a glimpse of this other world too, haven’t you, Mr Billings?”
Billings just stared back without responding.
“You caught a glimpse, like I did many years ago, and you’ve become obsessed. This obsession has caught hold of you, making you abandon all reason, throw caution to the wind, setting you on a quest to discover more. Ain’t that right, Mr Billings?”
Billings continued to stare quietly at the old woman, stunned by the truth in her words.
“But it’s a dangerous world we live in, Detective Sergeant. There are dark powers in this world. Powers which aim to destroy us. This is the world the church tried to shield us from. The world God tried to keep us ignorant of, until Eve and Pandora opened the gates with their disobedient acts. And they have unleashed hell. It is this hell which has cost Rachel her life and which is threatening mine. It has cost Mr Billings his little finger.” She looked at Billings again. “Curiosity is an evil vice, wouldn’t you say, Mr Billings? That evil, feminine vice has got hold of all of us, and now look what it’s led to.”
Clarkson looked confused. “Feminine vice? But Billings ain’t a woman.”
“But he has a woman’s soul,” was the response.
Billings smiled, embarrassed. Is that what it is, he thought.
“Well, you certainly have a way with words, Mrs Grenfell.” Clarkson sat down in one of the armchairs. “I met you before, you know. Several times, in fact. You helped Scotland Yard with some of our investigations. You went by the name of Madam Bovlatska then.”
“I know.”
“You had a flair for the dramatic then, too. But this is a murder investigation, Mrs Grenfell, and no time for fairy tales.” He took a pencil and notepad out of his jacket pocket. “Now, why don’t you tell me, in clear and uncryptic language, just what the devil is going on.”
12. Mrs Grenfell and the Otherworldly
A Glimpse of Heaven Page 10