A Thief in the Night (5 page)

CANLON STUDIO TO LET

We have it on good authority that Mr Earnest Delmont, the Chairman of the Dilettante Club, has acquired the very studio in which the great Watercolourist F.W. Canlon worked whilst in the City. Though celebrated for his views of Lincolnshire, Canlon also painted the Thames, notably at Wapping, and the studio is very close to Wapping Basin, at the corner of Well Street. Persons wishing to rent should contact Mr Delmont at the Dilettante, Haymarket.

Cries of ‘Well done Harry!’ cheered the literary bachelor far more than any applause he had received after seminars on Kit Marlowe or even the Bard himself.

‘Just one small point – won’t the bounders be a touch suspicious, reading this so soon after tonight’s little business?’ It was Eddie, ever the rational Peeler.

‘Fair point … but we shall have to hope that the men’s greed overcomes their caution, because if they had that studio, with this press cutting in their hand, think of the appeal to buyers!’ Harry beamed at his plan. ‘There will be, of course, no such place, but we shall be at that address with Mr Delmont, after enquiries.’

‘We’ll be there as soon as the piece is in the paper,’ said Eddie. ‘Believe me, our swindlers will be there right away, to survey the place.’

It was around midday when Byrne and Tosher arrived at Well Street, and they were not alone. There was a small crowd there, some of the number gathered having notebooks, and there was also a photographer setting up. All eyes were on the first-floor window, and everyone listened to Harry, who was, for the day only, Mr Delmont of the Dilettante Club. He wore his most gaudy waistcoat, and a tie verging on the loud and assertive. Even his usual grey coat had been abandoned and replaced by a light fawn sports jacket, and on his head was a checked cloth bowler hat. His Cambridge friends would not have recognised him.

‘Gentlemen, you are gazing at the very room. Observe the long window for the necessary light, and that neat little balcony … an Italianate touch for our great artist. As you know, he painted the English rising of autumn sunrise amazingly well …’

‘We must get the place, Tosher,’ Byrne said. ‘Think of the pull of that address! The rent would be a sound investment. We’d appear honest and legitimate in the actual, approved studio!’ Byrne insisted on boldly walking across to join the crowd, but Tosher, nervous, dropped back.

The crowd had moved in close to Harry, who was standing on a box so he could be seen as he spoke. In the middle of his speech, he saw Byrne approach – he matched Cara’s description very well, even down to the green cravat. Harry gave the nod and before Byrne could move, he was held by two pairs of strong arms and he turned to see two police constables, fixing their glare on him.

‘Mr Byrne, I believe?’ said Harry, and immediately Byrne shouted, ‘Tosher … help!’ but the big man was already running. From behind Harry, Eddie ran out, followed by two more officers, all giving chase to Tosher.

‘This will be the man who attacked me, boys!’ yelled Eddie.

Tosher, in sheer panic, took a right turn into Smithfield. He was heavily built but he could gather some speed, and was soon on the edge of St Katherine’s Dock. Moving quickly he lunged for the first turning that appeared, and found himself running through an arched siding, like a dank tunnel, with massive beer barrels on both sides of him. A shout from behind called, ‘You – stop there! This is the law!’

He ran but felt his pace slowing. ‘No, not inside again … I will not go back into that black hell! I will not!’

His heart was thumping so hard he felt the echo in his throat. He turned to see his pursuers, but in that second he took a sidestep and hit a rack holding a barrel. The massive bulk of it rolled into the side of his leg and he was knocked six feet aside, as the weight settled on an ankle. Tosher heard the running footsteps coming nearer and nearer. Only twenty feet ahead was the edge of the dock and the pool of water beyond. With one last effort of strength he pulled free of the barrel’s rim and crawled to the water’s edge.

Eddie Carney was ahead of his men, wanting to grab the man who had meant to kill him just two nights ago. He saw the huge figure teetering on a fence and then the man’s weight fell forward and lurched towards the brown water. Tosher had time to turn, so that Eddie saw his face, and the detective heard the big man cry, ‘I’m not going back, bobby, I’m not going back in there!’

‘Really, Lacey, you have none of the skills required for billiards!’ said the tall aristocrat as the white ball slammed against the cushion and bounced into the air. He and his friend, Professor Harry Lacey of Cambridge, were enjoying a game at the Septimus Club. Lacey merely smiled, enjoying the ribbing. His long hair flopped into his eyes and his pince-nez slipped rather when he tried to concentrate on a shot.

‘Well I’ve had enough for tonight, George … too tired,’ he said, absentmindedly chalking the tip of his cue. ‘Been trying to construe seventeenth-century manuscripts all day, until you called and rescued me. The men of those benighted times loved their fusty, musty paper and tended to spill eggs and cheese all over their poems. That, on top of being too enthusiastic in dealing with a very large luncheon with some dons up in town. Anyway, look at you, six feet and more of youth and suavity, played billiards since you were a young blade, and me a middle-aged bookman with short sight! Perhaps you would like a game of chess – far more up my street old man!’

His associate was Lord George Lenham-Cawde, and he could never resist teasing his friend. After all, he was well aware that, as they stood in the billiard room of the Septimus Club in Piccadilly, his friend was a rather shabby, tweed-clad bachelor still living like a vicar in his Cambridge rooms, while he himself had the funds to buy half of the university if he wished. ‘Lacey old man, why on earth do you waste time on old paper? That’s all you do … mess about with smelly old yellow paper!’

‘Oh stop it, George, you know you’re jealous. You are as bored as an old dowager in her knitting circle, and you have to have a go at me to raise a smile. I love my work. Fine, so you wear a Savile Row suit and shoes that shine like a horseman’s breeches, but are you happy? I’m jolly happy with old poems. You know where you are with them … unlike people, with whom you have something of an unhealthy preoccupation, I might add. I prefer my work.’

‘Ah yes, your work … I tried to read your dull tome on the sonnets of Shakespeare. I dropped off to sleep at page two. Sorry and all that …’

At that moment the door was burst open and a stout, red-faced man of around sixty came in, with Smythe behind him, calling out apologies.

‘I’m terribly sorry Lord Lenham-Cawde, but he pushed past me and …’

‘Not to worry Smythe … leave us to have a chat with our desperate friend.’

As Smythe left, the visitor advanced angrily towards Lenham and grabbed his collar. ‘By heaven Sir, you have defiled my daughter and you will pay … every court in the land … every court I tell you. I have powerful friends.’

Lord George, who was a foot taller than the assailant, pulled himself free of his grasp and smiled. ‘I have no idea who you are … but this is my friend, Professor Harry Lacey. Let’s sit shall we?’

The man responded with a shout and then loosened his collar. ‘You are beneath contempt Sir … my heart is racing … and I am not a well man, I may add.’

At that point, Lacey intervened and led the man to a sofa, spoke gently to him and offered him a gin from the tray of drinks on the side-table. Lord George sat opposite, lit a cheroot and crossed his long legs.

‘Now, who are you, and who is your daughter?’

‘I am Charles Perch of Richmond … you know very well who I am. You are Lord Albert Lenisham?’

Before Lord George could reply, Professor Lacey spoke up. ‘No you buffoon, this is Lord George Lenham-Cawde! You are mistaken and have made a grave error, Sir. I suggest you apologise.’

Perch put down his drink. There was a flush across his face and he stood, then walked across to George and bent forward, almost as if to curtsey. ‘My deepest apologies, My Lord … I was misinformed. I’m so awfully sorry…’

Lord George stood and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Hey … no harm done old chap. We all get things wrong at times. Sounds as if you’ve a little problem there. Some cad seduced your daughter?’

‘It’s a long story … but I think we have a villain abroad. This Lord Albert Lenisham must be found! He is a philanderer of the first order. I’ve never met the man, but I’ve heard all about him from my daughter. He’s been working his charms on her this last two months or so … been to Ascot, been to the theatre … taken her to Boulogne once. But the devil never shows his face in Richmond. I got the names mixed up … don’t know what I’m doing half the time!’

‘What else can you tell us about this man? Lacey asked.

‘All I know is that Alice says she loves him … and then, this week, well, she shows all the signs of being … well,
with child
!

Lord George took a sip of his whisky and then, waving Perch to sit down again, he spoke with care, in his most judicious manner. ‘I’m afraid that there is no Lord Lenisham. Lord Albert died two years ago, and he had no family … no sons, no heir. Very sad. It seems that you have been the victim of a fraud. This bounder who charmed your daughter, he’s most likely a seasoned rogue. If you could give us a description we may be able to help. Eh Lacey?’

‘Well, let me see,’ Perch blustered, ‘I gather he’s short, rather rotund … smokes cigars and … he has wavy blonde hair and, oh my God!’ A look of horror filled his face. He had suddenly had some kind of epiphany, and it wasn’t a good one.

‘Oh my dear Lord Lenham-Cawde … the crook may be at my home now! The place is empty now … as we speak. My daughter Alice is with her aunt in Oxford, as she is ill!’

Lacey asked, ‘Surely he can’t get in?’

‘Would he have a reason to get in?’ Lord George asked. ‘I mean … are you a particularly wealthy man Mr Perch? One hates to mention money, but in this case it seems to apply.’

‘Well, yes … I mean, I’m retired from my hotel business. I own a hotel by the sea … the Calsworth … and well, I live a quiet life really.’

Lacey stepped in with a direct question, ‘Do you keep money at home?’

Perch was visibly sweating now and he took out a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead with it, mumbling a mix of laments and curses. Then he said, ‘Well, no, very little … but I do have … oh no! My collection of guns. He wouldn’t! I have a very valuable collection of pistols…. I have a room full of Parkers … of Holborn, you know? I have around forty of them … and some rare duelling pistols too. Been collecting them since I was twenty, forty-odd years ago now. He wouldn’t be after those surely?’

Lord George spoke, even as he picked up his coat from the stand, ‘Parkers? I know the ones. He may be more than a cad … he may be out for something else. What about your servants? Are they at home?’

‘No … I have none living in, and I am a widower. Two local ladies do all the cleaning. I don’t live a grand life, as I say. No butlers or anything grand!’

‘There’s no time to be lost,’ declared Lord George. ‘Let’s get to Richmond … Lacey, have Smythe call a cab, now!’

Seconds after arriving at Shering House, Richmond, all three men were standing in a small ante-room of Mr Perch’s home, beside the spacious library, surrounded by cabinets, displays and wall-mounted cases containing weapons of all kinds. Nothing appeared to have been touched or disturbed.

‘Well, there are no signs of a forced entry, Mr Perch. It appears that all is well,’ Professor Lacey said, tapping the glass top of a long display case. ‘Your home is indeed, it appears, your castle!’

‘Yes, thanks to providence eh?’ Charles Perch sighed and offered his guests a drink. ‘Please take a seat … here, gentlemen, please.’ He motioned to a comfortable sofa and then fetched drinks from the corner. Lacey glanced along the shelves, noting the rare sets of eighteenth-century works, and a few of what appeared to be beautiful solid folios of topography in a special collection.

‘You have a marvellous collection, Mr Perch,’ he said, accepting the proffered whisky.