A Thief in the Night (6 page)

‘Yes. I’m very fond of Dr Johnson and his circle. I collect them quite, what should I say … avidly.’

Lord George stretched out his long legs and looked around the room. Unlike Lacey, he had no interest in the books and furniture. What he saw was the small detail, and there was one of these which he disliked. ‘Oh dear … Mr Perch, I fear you have not noticed that little heap of papers over there.’ He pointed to a corner which could not be seen from where Perch sat. The man immediately dashed over to investigate, and the others followed.

‘Well … I can’t tell what might have gone or what should be there. Though it is my financial cabinet that appears to have been raided.’

‘Any money taken? Bills?’

‘I wouldn’t know. Alice sees to all that. She’s my accounts clerk you see, bless her. She’s very organised. Everything in its place.’

They all stood, staring at the pile of papers. Lord George’s mind was working hard. ‘Clearly, Mr Perch, this cabinet has been searched. Someone knew what they were looking for, as nothing else has been touched as far as we may tell. No door has been forced. Nothing, it seems, is amiss here.’

‘I’ll check upstairs, Mr Perch, if you wish?’ Lacey suggested, and the man nodded. The professor walked from room to room, taking in the grand, broad landing, wide enough for children to play. But this was no house for the young. In fact it was peculiarly undisturbed. There were shining dressers, shelves and cupboards everywhere, and the solid walls were positively crammed with paintings, mostly watercolours of English rural and seafront scenes. He noticed one very large drawing of the Calsworth Hotel, Brighton. This was obviously the place owned by Mr Perch. Lacey noticed the name of the artist at the bottom left – no less a person than Humphrey Coppice RA. Everything in the house suggested the best, as if everything Perch placed in his home was permanent – something for the future. ‘Nothing ever gets moved,’ Lacey murmured to himself. ‘It’s like ghosts live here.’ Then, catching himself, he started back down the staircase when he felt a chilly draught at his neck. Turning, he spied an open window.

Lacey took a closer look. It had been forced with something hard and sharp. There was a dent and a rough edge where some wood had been forced from the frame. There was a telltale boot-print on the stair. It was a clumsy job. He called for the others.

‘Yes, a rough fellow, desperate … not a professional burglar Mr Perch,’ Lord George said.

Perch was now curious. ‘Lord George … what exactly is it that you do?’

‘I’m rich as Croesus. I don’t do anything except play. My father left me four properties and a large slice of Wiltshire. But I do, however, have a hobby. I study criminals, as does Professor Lacey here, and I have to tell you that this does not make sense…’

He was interrupted by the slam of the front door and then a woman’s voice calling up the stairs, ‘What doesn’t make sense? Who are these men, Papa?’

It did not take long for Alice to confess that she had been waiting for the man she knew as Lord Lenisham at Paddington, where he was supposed to meet her from the Oxford train. As she told her father the sad story, she felt sure she had been deserted by the man, as Lord Lenisham, at Paddington, where he was supposed to meet her. Lord George was watching her, beginning to understand why she would attract men. Alice was petite, fair-haired, with the complexion of an English rose – healthy, with an adorable face. Somehow, even swaddled in a heavy coat, he almost fell for her himself, but then that was something he did rather easily, and he had to pull himself up and ask a question.

‘Dear Miss Perch, this man … could you describe him for me?’

‘Are you a police officer? Who are these men Papa?’ she asked again.

Lacey explained before anyone else could speak. ‘Miss Perch, I am Professor Harry Lacey, and this is my friend, Lord Lenham-Cawde.’

She frowned. ‘What? Not another lord! Believe me I’ve had enough of aristocrats! William … he was … he …’ Here she began to sob, and her father put his arm around her shoulder and gently guided her into the nearest sitting room, followed by Lord George and Lacey.

After a strong drink, Alice gradually began to put her words together, as the men listened. ‘He was lovely – very kind to me. I thought that I had found my future husband … we became very close. He was so charming, my William. But this last week he changed …’

‘Alice, was this because … I mean … are you, that is to say … are you
enceinte
my dear?’

She looked up at her father sharply, ‘Papa, I am
not
pregnant!’

‘I am sorry to be the serious paterfamilias, but I dread to think …’ Perch was about to give a lecture on morality but Alice interrupted him. ‘Papa, you tried to prevent my career on the stage … all that talk about it being for fallen women! Really … I am a legitimate actress and have appeared in some classical roles … you could have encouraged me!’

Perch proceeded to give his guests a talk on the lamentable fate of most young ladies who tried to make a living by treading the boards, but Lord George cut in and moved the focus back to the break-in.

He asked them to follow him to the pile of papers spilled on the floor. ‘Alice, I understand that you are in charge of the financial papers … could you have a look at this and tell me what you think is missing please.’

She crouched down and busied herself going through the bundles, which were all labelled and tied with string. Perch was still in a nervous state, and he sat back, his bulk in a rocking chair, but his heart was less agitated now that he knew there was to be no embarrassment landed on his good name.

‘Ah here … there is one paper missing, Lord Lenham-Cawde … a contract, relating to the services maintaining the hotel at Brighton, our hotel … the Calsworth.’

‘Miss Perch, what did your Lord Lenisham look like, may I ask?’

‘Oh he’s about thirty, fair hair … oh, he smoked those foreign cigarettes with the black paper … I thought his accent was northern … anyway, why bother describing him? I have a drawing.’

Lacey gave a positive yelp of amazement. ‘My dear young lady, you can draw as well as act?’

‘My daughter is creative in every way, Professor … including in her use of truth and lies!’

Ignoring the remark, Alice went into the library and returned with a sketchpad. George and Lacey studied the portrait and gasped at the same time.

‘It’s J.C. … to the life! Jimmy Canter!’

Lord George grabbed Lacey by the arm. ‘There is no time to be lost … Harry, to your library immediately. We’re looking for a scoundrel of the first order. It may be J.C. himself and his damned brother!’

They left Perch and Alice calling after them, Lord George apologising for the swift departure even as he strode out. Alice’s cab was still there, and the driver shouted out, asking when he was likely to be paid.

‘You will be remunerated when you have my friend at Edwardes Square, Kensington, and me at the Septimus Club, and we want to be there in no more than ten minutes!’

With a curse of ‘Ruddy la-di-da …’ the driver cracked his whip and they were off.

In the dark interior of the cab, Lord George briefed his friend. ‘Harry, you’re looking for frauds and conmen and, in particular, our old friends the Canters, yes?’

‘Yes, George … whoever he was, he wanted Perch’s signature.’

‘Indeed. Come to the Septimus as soon as you have found anything. I’ll be planning tomorrow’s watch. We shall be at the Bank of England, western office.’

Harry Lacey’s London rooms in Edwardes Square were in complete contrast to his Cambridge study. The scholarly bachelor relished his London life, and his den in Kensington was his retreat, his bolthole when he needed to be out of the Cambridge stuffiness he needed but also only tolerated for so long and no more.

He had a room for dining, a small back bedroom, a basement where his ageing housemaid did the cleaning and cooking, and then there was his library. It contained only works on the history of crime. Legal reports, press cuttings and pictures, all related to the London underworld and to the corresponding, often corrupt, milieu of the wealthy. Many men in the new, brash city, a metropolis which was the hub of a massive world empire, were so hungry for money and power that they threw all morality out of the window. Lacey, a specialist in Elizabethan poetry, had developed a passion for the grisly tales in the annals of crime after meeting Lord George Lenham-Cawde at a bachelor party given to celebrate his lordship’s return from India, where he had been involved in espionage against the Russians. The two men discovered a mutual penchant for hanging narratives and detective tales.

‘Now then …’ he mumbled to himself as he flicked through the files on forgers and frauds relating to the last five years in London. He found ‘Canter: James and Jack.’ There was his meticulous summary, drawn from newspaper reports, personal enquiries and from the best source of all, the street-corner men who saw everything and heard everything, then wanted money for the information.

He was reading the notes when there was a shout from downstairs.

‘Hello? Mr Lacey Sir, are you wantin’ any choclit?’ It was Mrs Sledge, the housemaid. He knew she would come to the door, as she always did, unable to resist being nosey if he had been out anywhere, and indeed there was a knock at the door and Mrs Sledge walked in, tutting about the bad light. ‘You’ll ruin your eyes Professor. Now I s’pose you bin out lecturin’ and that? You and your bloomin’poetry. Funny way to make a livin’ I say. Or have you bin playing the jack?’

Lacey was trying to concentrate. ‘Mrs Sledge, I’m not in a talkative mood … and I might be playing the jack, but I haven’t time to tell you about it.’ He made a mental note of her use of slang, reminding himself to investigate the origins of the word
jack
later when matters were resolved.

‘Ooh, detective work eh? On the trail of a killer?’

‘Mrs Sledge, would you be a dear and make me some strong tea? I need to keep awake and I need some peace, thank you.’

She was small, a sparrow of a woman, wearing a flowery apron, her long black hair held tight in a bun. This wobbled a little when she was in a mood, as she was now. ‘Right, well I knows where I stands then. I’ll put the kettle on … oh, and I expect you’ll not be interested in the gent as was ’ere earlier, asking for you?’

‘What? Who was it?’

‘That p’liceman, the one what is always happy. Not natural that, being always happy.’

Lacey knew she meant Eddie Carney, and that was good news. The Detective Inspector had obviously been informed of the situation by someone. He had come around at exactly the right time.

‘Good, now is there any possibility that there might be some tea available before Christmas?’

‘Blinkin’ impertinence …’ Lacey heard her grumble as she left the room and headed downstairs. She loved their banter.

Late that night, Lord George was back in Richmond. He was led into the drawing room and given whisky. When he drank the glass straight down and refused to sit, Perch was worried.

‘What on earth is it My Lord?’

‘Mr Perch, I need the services of your daughter, urgently!’

Perch’s double chin quivered and he blinked in such a way that Lord George started to blink also.