A Thief in the Night (2 page)

‘Surely the man was acting?’ said Cara. ‘Did he have a time as an actor in his past?’

Eddie shook his head. ‘No, not at all. Bairstan’s two sons confirmed that their father had been silent in that ten-year period, only excepting one or two words. Henry said that since being locked up, his father had been pressed to speak and had answered something sounding like ‘Be quiet … be quiet’. Joseph confirmed that his father had been “out of his mind” for ten years.’

‘Now hold on just a minute!’ interrupted Lord George. ‘There had been enough in him to marry and earn a living, but we must apply more curious enquiry and suggest that Abraham Bairstan had feigned being struck by a paralysis, perhaps combined with a mental illness. Surely he had observed men with that illness and copied them?’

‘Not at all,’ Eddie said. ‘Sixty years ago the most meaningful explanation was to put his strange behavior down to God’s will, so the jury found that the prisoner stood mute by the visitation of God. The question, ladies and gentlemen, is how may we have proved that he was feigning his silence and his illness?’

‘The most enthralling story would have been to create a terrible shock … force the man to speak by sheer surprise,’ Leo suggested. ‘Perhaps the use of a firework behind him would suffice?’ There was general laughter at this.

‘Typical of you, Leo,’ said Harry. ‘Take the story for one of your improbable plots old man!’

Leaning forward to assure herself of the full attention of the table, Cara said, ‘In my experience, one should always question the improbable. Most men are charlatans, and are inept at pretence. If this Bairstan person was seen as a victim of God, and had not taken the life of his wife, and this was agreed on the testimony of sons and friends, then there is one conclusion … his sons and friends were part of the plan. They all wanted her dead! I would far more believe
that
than a cock and bull tale about a visitation of God!’

‘My dear Cara, you leave very little room for trusting that at least some human beings will have an ounce of morality,’ Maria cut in. ‘I think a detective has to leave a small amount of gullibility in her, so that she may learn by mistakes rather than by logic all the time.’ She laughed at her own exaggeration, done entirely for effect.

‘The solution is simple,’ declared Leo. ‘The man was driven to madness by the constant praying and therefore took his wife’s life while under duress; the verdict should have been justifiable homicide, while driven insane by the woman’s kneeling to pray!’

There was general laughter and the club was formally established. Detective Inspector Edward Carney said, ‘Too much merriment! There is no laughter at the Yard. I therefore solemnly inaugurate the … what shall we call it?’

‘Now, I am properly Septimus George, and Harry here is Septimus Harold,’ said George, ‘and we play chess at the Septimus Club in Piccadilly … so…’

‘I therefore solemnly inaugurate the Septimus Society, a criminological brotherhood and sisterhood devoted to the investigation of those crimes which the police ignore, forget or find too baffling!’ Eddie raised his glass and all seven members drank to the newly inaugurated Septimus Society.

‘This is a capital idea,’ said Leo. ‘Why did it take us so long to see that murder is a more worthwhile topic for debate than any number of worthy causes!’

It was an early autumn evening when Sir Simon Basson came into the library of the Septimus Society, calling out the name of Lord Lenham-Cawde. Grey-haired heads turned and voices from deep in the comfortable leather armchairs shushed and tutted at the intrusion butting into their accustomed silence like a peal of bells at early morning.

‘There you are, George. By God you’re a hard man to find!’ Basson said, peering around the wing of Lord George Lenham-Cawde’s chair, where the young peer was deep in reading the
Daily Graphic
.

‘My dear Simon, how good to see you, though I was trying to concentrate on the law reports.’ Lord George stood, towering above Basson, who was square and solid and of middle height, a rugger blue at college. They shook hands and Lord George pointed across to the sofa where his friend sat, enjoying scones and tea.

‘You never met Harry Lacey, did you Simon? Harry, this is Sir Simon Basson, at Cambridge with me. Good scholar and a capital batsman.’

‘No; pleased to meet you Harry.’

Professor Lacey was round and short, a man who enjoyed his food and drink and who was constantly ribbed and tormented by Lord George about his attempts to lose some weight.

‘Glad to meet you, Sir Simon … I’ve had not a word from George since he was immersed in the crime stories. All he wants to talk about today are the habitual criminals supposedly teeming in the streets.’

‘Well, that’s exactly right, and it’s why I’ve come to see you. One of these blackguards has been busy taking me for a fool … and he’s succeeded.’ Basson sat down, put one hand on the table to support himself and gave a deep sigh. ‘I’m finding it hard to feel pleasant in the social world as I’ve just discovered that I’ve been duped, robbed absolutely. This rogue in a rather loud suit has bilked me, George, done me for almost a thousand pounds!’

Lord George ordered some brandy and sat down next to his friend, trying to console him. ‘Now Simon, when you’re ready, please tell me more.’ George stretched his long legs out, took out a cigarette and sat back, looking intently at his friend’s face. Looking back at George, Simon saw someone who was in every way composed, confident and assured. Here was a man in his late thirties, a former army man, sitting there with his short, rich black hair and that dark moustache, elegantly posed, smoking and allowing his wonderfully acute brain to set to work. He knew he had come to the right man for help. ‘Come on Simon, as the great playwright said, give us a round, unvarnished tale,’ he said, and Simon found the words.

‘I bought a painting from this rogue … and it’s a fake, George.’

‘Now how do you know the thing is a fake, my dear Simon? In all our time together as students, I knew you as a sensible, rational cove, not easily taken in…’

‘Hah! Well I have been. It was at the Matchdown auction rooms I met this crook. Thought all was well, then last night – as you may know I was giving a dinner in my rooms in the very heart of Marylebone for Sparrow Warburton’s new book of poems and all the aesthetic types came you know – and there I was, mine host, cheery, and trying my best to hold a conversation about Turner … I even had that chap Grossmith there to play the piano for us … such a droll type … anyway I was going on about painting and showing off my new acquisition when this little chap tugs at my sleeve and, pointing to my new watercolour, he says, “Sorry to say, Sir Simon, but this picture here … this is no F.W. Canlon I’m afraid.”

‘All heads turned to the picture. Then followed a lecture by this little man – some kind of lecturer I believe – as to why the pretty landscape with Lincoln Cathedral was the work of a very clever forger!’

Harry wiped his mouth clear of crumbs with a napkin, sipped the last of his tea, and said, ‘Canlon … very collectable. All his best work is Lincolnshire. Beyond my pocket though. Did he paint your place, George? George’s family seat is near Horncastle, you see,’ he added to Basson, in way of explanation.

‘Never painted our place,’ sighed Lord George. ‘Go on, Simon.’

‘Well I paid close on a thousand for it from this dealer … just six weeks ago!’ said Sir Simon, anger heating his every word. ‘He was paid at the end of last month of course, by a bill of exchange. I came here because you have friends in the police, I hear, even in the ranks of the detectives. Word gets around about you. Is there any way you could help me, George?’

Lord George stubbed out his cigarette and turned to face his friend. ‘Just a moment … did you say that we are known for work against crime?’

‘Why yes … in the clubs and coffee houses, I think. I myself heard about you in the Turkish Baths.’

Lord George looked surprised: usually he hid his emotions very well. He was partly shocked and partly impressed. ‘But we’re a
secret
society, Simon … at least I thought we were. We merely supply a need – specialist knowledge when required; if the police take no interest or meet with failure, then the Septimus Society is here. But good God, we never advertise!’ He gave Harry a searching look, and the professor of literature puffed out his rosy cheeks. ‘By Heaven, George, you don’t think that I …’

‘All I’m saying, Harry, is that you have a tendency to speak first and think afterwards.’

Harry Lacey smiled to himself, reflecting that he was enjoying doing something entirely different to studying old books. But he pretended to be offended and pulled a face, before exclaiming, ‘I’m the very soul of discretion, George … never speak of us. It was most probably Leo; he can’t keep a secret.’

Basson was growing impatient. He stood up, and for a moment George thought his friend was going to stamp his feet and have a childish tantrum, but instead he simply asked what was to be done.

George stood too, took another cigarette from his silver case, and said, ‘We must go to an art auction, Simon … but not the Matchdown. He won’t show his face there again. No, he’ll be at another. Then we also have the question of how he deluded you and who’s the scratcher. Probably the man you met is the talker, and his scratcher’s behind somewhere. What happened exactly?’

Basson told of meeting the man at the auction and then being taken in by his talk of having several paintings in his own establishment which were for sale. His argument was obvious – a private sale would avoid the auction house’s cut, of course. ‘He then invited me to his place, and we went to a studio where there was a man working, and pictures around the room …’

Lord George cut in: ‘Do you recall passing any significant places … or did anything stay in the mind?’

‘Yes … yes, the sale was in Poland Street and we walked …,’ Basson frowned in concentration, ‘… we went through Soho Square … then, well, it was very dark and I had, you know, taken a drink or two.’

George was putting the scene together in his mind. His friend had been talked into going with this man, then he was taken to a small room which was apparently a painter’s studio. There he sold Simon the painting.

‘Very well, to the art sale tomorrow! We’ll try to find this rogue.’ George declared.

‘There’s a rather grand affair at the Holborn house … at eleven.’

‘Meet me there … I’ll have Kate with me,’ said George.

‘No you won’t George,’ Harry said, confidently. ‘Kate, as of today, is no longer with us. I meant to tell you but all you could talk about was the problem of the London criminal and the epidemic of night assaults. We lost her to a lucrative marriage.’

‘Then we must recruit a woman immediately. Go home, Simon, gather your strength, and meet one of our Society there tomorrow.’

As Simon Basson left, George asked his friend, ‘Where may we find a suitable actress in time for tomorrow morning?’

‘Why, at The Savoy of course. I have one young lady in mind … an old friend. In fact I’ve had a word with her already about working with us.’ Harry absent-mindedly picked up the last half scone on his plate and nibbled at it, lost in thought for a moment. ‘First, I’ll check my records for forgery in the art market, perhaps going back a year. I have the name Metlem in my head.’

‘No. He died. Drowned in the Thames,’ George said, with a triumphant smile.

‘Right, so once again your memory is superior to my index cards! I’m not impressed. It’s rather dismally tragic that one so young should have such petty childish victories of fact,’ Harry said, adding, ‘I’ll look at the cards and then I’m away to the theatre, George. This is a job for Eddie. We need the police involved from the start.’

Lord George sat down and, grasping the
Daily Graphic
and stretching out his legs, settled down once more in the comfortable leather armchair. ‘I’ll think about how to trap our little forger,’ he murmured to himself.

The door of Pentonville Prison opened, by the side of the massive entrance gates, and in the early sunshine a large, fleshy man stepped out, carrying a hessian sack in which were all the possessions he had in the world. He blinked, and screwed up his eyes, then lifted the sack over one shoulder as a warder called out behind him, ‘No coming back, Tosher. We’re sick of you ’ere.’

‘No more than I am of you … if you ever see me again, it’ll be in a coffin!’

He was tall, still quite young, in his late twenties, and had once been solid, muscled and athletic, but now he was ruined by the two years of hard labour he had endured. He had a pot belly, and the rest of him was full and fat. His face was pale and he walked slightly bent.

There was but one person waiting for him: a short, stocky, middle-aged man in expensive clothing. He wore a woollen jacket, fastened high, with a collarless check waistcoat beneath; a light green silk cravat and black striped trousers showed the world that he was well-off. A distinctive feature, standing out for anyone to see, was his glass eye and a ridge of scar tissue on the temple: evidence that he had seen some kind of accident or had been to war.