Authors: Norman Russell
Depths of Deceit (11 page)
‘Just a moment, Sergeant, you’re losing me. Who is this Tommy Bassano?’
‘He was a simpleton, sir, who made a living from selling
bunches of herbs and so-called cures for common ailments from door to door. The women liked him well enough, because he was quite good-looking in a pinched, half-starved kind of way, but all the men round here hated him, on account of him being simple, like, and a foreigner into the bargain. He was supposed to be some kind of an Italian.’
‘And this Patrick Brannigan—’
‘Brannigan declared that poor Tommy was a wizard, and that it was he who must have murdered John Cornish. There was something more to that – some grudge that Brannigan held against poor Tommy. We’ll get that out of him, later.
‘So Brannigan and his mates poured out of the Vasa like a swarm of hornets, and laid siege to Tommy Bassano in his lodging further up the road. To cut a long story short, Mr Box, they broke the windows with uprooted cobbles and stones, and then someone threw a lighted torch into the house. You saw the result of that yourself. The woman who rents out the rooms managed to escape through the back. It could have developed into a full-scale riot, Inspector, but we had enough police to disperse the mob. We’ve arrested the ringleaders, and they’ve been lodged in the cells at Peckham until tomorrow morning.’
‘Where’s your inspector, Sergeant Lambton?’ he asked.
‘He’s gone to Peckham High Street, sir, to consult Superintendent Butt about the riot.’
Box rose from his chair, and began a swift search of the shelves. Lambton watched him as he rummaged behind the rows of pledges, and then turned his attention to the piles of baled clothing lying on the floor. What was he looking for?
Box gave a little cry of satisfaction, and motioned to the sergeant to join him in the space behind the front door. He pointed to one of the two brass fenders leaning upright against the wall.
‘You see that, Sergeant?’ he said. ‘There’s a heavy ornamental ball at one end of this fender, but the other one’s been screwed off.
Do you see? The thread in the socket is still clean and bright, so it hasn’t been removed very long. A round, heavy brass ball – does that suggest anything to you? Bring that empty strong-box over to the table, will you – quiet, man, or they’ll hear you in the back room.’
‘What are you going to do, sir?’ asked Sergeant Lambton. ‘Why are you unscrewing the remaining ball from that fender?’
‘Listen, Sergeant,’ said Box in a low voice. ‘There’s no need for me to go into details, but I had a long talk about this old religion of Mithras with an expert on the subject, a lady called Miss Mary Westerham. She told me that spilt honey always went together with the symbol of a lion, and that the sign of a raven was
associated
with mercury.’
‘But that’s wrong, sir, because—’
‘It’s wrong, Sergeant, because poor Mr Cornish’s killer got his facts wrong. In this case, the case of John Cornish, there’s honey, all right, because it’s easier to procure than mercury. I expect you’ll find an opened jar of honey in the kitchen back there. But the sign’s wrong – a raven instead of a lion. Whoever carved that crude little bit of slate carved the wrong image. He’d read about the murders at Clerkenwell and Carshalton in the newspapers, you see, and used what he’d read there to concoct this fake
sacrifice
to Mithras—
‘Do I have to say any more, Sergeant? You know what we’ve got to do. After that, you can send a constable to fetch the van for poor Cornish’s body. Come on, let’s get it over and done with. When I give the nod, fling open that kitchen door.’
Box stooped down and, holding the heavy brass knob by its screw, trawled it through the pool of congealed blood. He placed it in the rifled strong-box, and signalled to the sergeant, who suddenly threw open the door to the back room. The haunted Victor Freestone, who was sitting motionless beside a uniformed constable, looked up in terror as the inspector slammed the open strong-box down on to the table.
‘What did you do with the money?’ cried Box. ‘Do you think you can fool a Scotland-Yarder?’
The quaking Freestone uttered a howl like that of a scalded cat, and rose from his chain He pointed at the bloodstained brass fender-ornament.
‘How did you find it?’ he shrieked. ‘I threw it into the storm drain across the road! No one could have found it in this rain….’
He began to mutter a kind of confession, mingled with an attempt at self-justification. Old Cornish had been a skinflint, an exploiter, he had cheated him out of his due share of the profits. The thin whine continued until it petered out in a strangled sob. Sergeant Lambton produced a set of handcuffs.
At the end of an hour’s activity, the body of the murdered
pawnbroker
had been removed in a police hand-ambulance, and Victor Freestone had been conveyed by van to the holding cells at Putney. Sergeant Lambton had prevailed on Box to come back for a while to the local police station in Canal Street. They were sitting together in front of a blazing fire in a cramped but cheerful office looking out on to the wet cobbles. A constable had brought them two enamel mugs of steaming coffee.
‘It was obvious to me, Sergeant,’ said Box, ‘that John Cornish’s murder had been tricked out to look like one of these Mithras slayings. The details had been culled from papers like
The
Graphic
,
but Freestone had got the symbols mixed. It was a crude affair, and my little ruse with the brass knob worked like a dream. And you’re my witness that I never enticed him into a confession by drawing his attention to that fender-ornament. It wasn’t a case of entrapment.’
‘It was very clever of you, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ said Lambton. ‘Very clever. Don’t you think so, Father Brooks?’
Box had noticed a stout, elderly clergyman enveloped in a serge cloak, who was sitting at a desk in the corner of the office, and had wondered who he was. He had been reading an evening
newspaper
with the aid of a pair of steel spectacles, which he used folded, rather like a magnifying glass. He had looked up when the two police officers had entered from the street, and had then turned to his newspaper once again. A broad-brimmed hat reposing on the desk in front of him suggested to Box that he was a Roman Catholic priest.
‘Very clever, Tim,’ said Father Brooks, treating Box to an elfish smile. ‘But then, Inspector Box is a very clever man.’
Sergeant Lambton rose from his chair, and went towards a door leading to the back premises of the police station.
‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I’ll go and see if all’s well out the back.’
He quickly left the room, closing the door behind him.
‘It’s probably an act of Providence,’ said Father Brooks, ‘that you and I have met here tonight, Mr Box. I’ve followed your investigations of these Mithras murders in the daily Press, and I’ve been longing to talk to you about the matter. Have you ever seen the Clerkenwell Treasure?’
‘Well, Father, I’ve heard a lot about it recently, but I’ve not
actually
seen it—’
‘May I counsel you to go and see it, Mr Box? It’s in the South Kensington Museum. They do a very informative leaflet, too, which you might care to buy. It’s only a penny. And when you’ve seen it – but not before – come out to visit me at Saint Joseph’s Retreat, in Highgate. Do you know it?’
‘I know
of
it, Father, because it’s only a couple of years since the great chapel was completed, round about the time that Sir Sydney Waterlow presented that fine park of his to the public. May I take it that you’re an antiquarian, Father?’
‘You may take it, Inspector, that I’m an observer of human nature,’ the priest replied. There was a slight acerbity in his voice. ‘When you come to see me – as I hope you will – I’ll tell you
something
about the foibles and follies of mankind. I’m speaking, you understand, about this business of the heathen god Mithras, and
his devotees. “They have mouths and speak not: they have eyes and see not”. You’ve heard those words, I expect, or something like them. Well, they’re true.’
Box looked at the priest, and saw the intense seriousness of the his expression. This was a man content for the moment to speak in enigmas. He’s telling me something, thought Box, and warning me about something, Maybe their meeting had indeed been
providential
.
‘I promise you, sir,’ he said, ‘that I will visit the Clerkenwell Treasure this very week.’
‘Excellent, Mr Box. And yes, I will admit now that I am
something
of an antiquarian. Many people would regard me as an expert on the Clerkenwell Treasure, and they would be right. Go and see it, and then come out to visit me at Highgate. I think you’ll find the journey well worth the trouble.’
I
t was well after midnight when Arnold Box got back to King James’s Rents. When his business in Rotherhithe was done, one of Sergeant Lambton’s constables walked with him through the rain to Union Street, where there was a cab rank. He’d secured a lumbering old four-wheeler, which had taken him into the Borough, and then across Southwark Bridge. When the cab had deposited him at the threshold of Cannon Street, he had hailed a hansom cab, which had taken him through the now diminishing rain to Whitehall.
It was very quiet and rather eerie late at night in King James’s Rents. When Box entered his office, he found that the gas-mantle had been turned low, and the embers of the day’s fire still glowed in the grate. He sat down in his usual chair at the long table. The ancient pile of buildings continued its creaking and settling of timbers, and from somewhere near the dark rear part of the office, a rat pattered and squeaked its way to some secret destination.
What a squalid, petty murder! Fancy being dragged out that far on a stormy night to expose the likes of Victor Freestone! If Lambton’s inspector hadn’t gone running off to Putney after the riot, he could have wrapped the whole thing up himself in half an hour. Well, he’d better write the case up for Old Growler to see in the morning.
He took a fresh sheet of paper from a drawer, and drew the
inkwell towards him.
Thursday,
23
August
1894
, he wrote. It was actually Friday, now, but the murder of that poor wretched
pawnbroker
had taken place on Thursday evening. He wrote for ten minutes or so, rapidly covering the page with his neat copperplate handwriting. Then he threw the pen down, and sat back in his chair.
He was getting nowhere with this Mithras investigation. He’d been on the case since the fourteenth, and still he’d made no arrests. He’d not even brought anyone in for questioning. What about that chemist’s assistant, who hoped to gain promotion from the death of Gregory Walsh? What about the bland,
uncommunicative
works manager who was now free to marry into the family of the murdered Abraham Barnes?
He got up from his chair, and groped his way down the dim tunnel that led to the drill hall. Two small oil lamps had been left lit, so that Sergeant Kenwright’s large drawing of the reredos at Clerkenwell stood in a pool of flickering light. The face of Mithras seemed to be wreathed in a mocking smile. He could just make out the edges of the piece of stone containing the face, one of the several pieces that had been broken in antiquity, and reassembled. It looked to Box like a rough outline of the Isle of Wight. Hateful, alien thing!
Box returned to his office, and sat down again at the table. No, there were no fresh leads. He’d still no idea who these fanatics were – if, indeed, they existed at all. And now, petty killers like Freestone were staging their own ‘Mithras murders’…. Where was he going? Who would be murdered next, with honey in his mouth and a carved image in his pocket? He needed a new impetus. Something, anything—
The swing doors of the office were pushed open, and an elderly man in shirtsleeves and a long waistcoat came in to the room. He was carrying a wooden tray, which contained a small brown teapot, a homely collection of saucerless cups, and a couple of tin spoons. There was also a bowl of brown sugar, and an enamel jug of milk.
‘Hello, Charlie,’ said Box. ‘Have you brought me some tea? I don’t suppose there’s any toast, is there?’
‘It’s just outside the door, sir. You pour yourself a brew, and I’ll bring it in.’
Box watched as Charlie limped out of the dim room. Charlie had been night-helper at the Rents for well over thirty years. He’d been invalided out of the Royal Engineers after suffering an
accident
to his spine, and had been given light work in the Metropolitan Police. He’d come to the Rents in 1862, and had worked there ever since.
‘You don’t look your usual cheerful self tonight, Mr Box,’ said Charlie, when he had returned with the toast. ‘I hear you’ve been out for most of the first watch.’
‘I have, Charlie. I’ve been across the river, solving a silly little murder which didn’t need a detective to do it. This toast’s lovely. And so is this tea. Thanks very much. You’re a shining ornament, Charlie.’
The old man chuckled, and walked round the table. He pulled down one of the chains on the mantle. The burners spluttered and hissed, and the shadows receded a little into the corners of Box’s office. Discreet use of the poker coaxed a little spurt of flame from the remains of the fire.
‘Mr Mackharness came in here just after ten, Mr Box,’ said Charlie. ‘Just called in on his way back from his club, he said. He wanted to know where you were. When he heard that you’d been called out to a case, he said he’d see you first thing in the morning. “Tell Mr Box not to go off duty until he’s seen me”, he said.’
‘I wonder what he wants?’ asked Box, half to himself.
‘He didn’t say, sir. He said he wouldn’t keep you more than a few minutes.’
‘He always says that, Charlie. Mr Mackharness’s “few minutes” can last half an hour.’ He yawned, and covered his mouth with his hand. ‘I don’t think I’ll finish this report tonight,’ he said. ‘I’m too tired to be bothered.’
‘Why don’t you go up to the bunks for a couple of hours, Mr Box?’ said Charlie. ‘No one’s going to bother you again tonight, and there’s a sergeant borrowed from “A” Division manning the front office for the night.’
‘I’ll do that, Charlie,’ said Box, rising from his chair, and stretching. ‘Maybe things will be more cheerful in the morning. Good night.’
‘Good night, Mr Box.’
Box left the old man in the office, and made his way slowly up the stairs from the vestibule, where a dim gaslight glowed. He glimpsed the duty sergeant in the office – the man borrowed for the night from “A” – but didn’t recognize him. He passed the door of the superintendent’s office on the first floor and ascended to the floor above. There was no gas laid on above the first storey, and the little passage at the top of the second flight was lit by a shaded oil lamp standing in a tray of sand on a ledge.
He entered a small room overlooking the cobbled square in front of King James’s Rents. It contained two double bunks, furnished with pillows and blankets. There was no light provided, and Box left the door half open, so that the oil lamp in the passage would help to illuminate the little room. He removed his jacket and shoes, and stretched out on one of the lower bunks, pulling the blanket up over himself.
Even up here, you could hear the creaking and settling of the fabric, and the scuttling of rats in the passage, inured, apparently, to the trays of poison left out for them. That Father Brooks…. There was a man who spoke in riddles. He’d go out to Highgate and see him. He might have something useful to tell him. This bunk was very comfortable, and he was very tired. Charlie was right. No one would disturb him again tonight….
There came the sound of footsteps in the passage, a sudden leap of shadows across the wall, and Sergeant Knollys entered the room. He sat down on the adjacent lower bunk, and looked at Box for a moment. Then he spoke.
‘Sir,’ said Knollys, ‘we’re making no headway with this Mithras business. What have we achieved, so far? No one’s been brought to book. Poor young Walsh is still unavenged, and your
investigation
of Barnes’s murder led to nothing. And what about tonight’s escapade? Maybe it’ll be the first of many.’
Knollys shifted on the bunk. Box could not see his features, as he was silhouetted against the lamplight in the passage. But he could sense a growing aggression in the big sergeant’s demeanour.
‘What do you propose to do next, sir?’ Knollys continued. ‘All we’ve done so far is take a genteel luncheon with our only suspect, and then walked away from him! What use is that? Why don’t you admit defeat, and hand the case over to someone else? You’re not fit to be on this case. You’re not fit to be an inspector —’
Box jerked awake with fright. His stomach churned, and he could hear the blood drumming in his ears. The room was empty. Jack Knollys would never have spoken to him like that. The dream-figure had been a vehicle for his own misgivings and sense of failure. Something would have to be done, and soon. The ‘ghost’ had been right: he wasn’t fit for the case.
He lay back disconsolately on the bunk, and immediately fell into a deep, untroubled sleep, from which he was awakened at seven o’clock by a rough shaking of his shoulder by the incoming duty sergeant.
Downstairs, Charlie accosted him at the door of his office.
‘There’s a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea for you on your table, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve put a bit of soap and a razor out in the ablutions, and a can of hot water. Mr Mackharness came in at six, as usual. I’ll be off now, sir.’
It was too early for Jack Knollys to have come in from Syria Wharf. Perhaps it was just as well. He could still recall the
dream-figure
who had told him that he wasn’t fit to be an inspector. He ate his sandwich, drank his tea, and went out to the ablutions, a chilly stone passageway, half open to the sky, in what Mr Mackharness called ‘the exercise yard’.
The shaving things had been arranged neatly beside one of the brownstone sinks, and behind them was propped a piece of
cardboard
, upon which Charlie had written in chalk: ‘For Use of Insp. Box.’ As Box shaved, he thought to himself, I’ve gone badly wrong over this case. I’m getting nowhere…. He wondered why Old Growler wanted to see him so early in the day. Well, in a minute or so, he’d find out.
‘Sit down in that chair, will you, Box, and listen carefully to what I’m going to say.’
Superintendent Mackharness sat behind his ornate desk, upon which he had placed a collection of folders and papers, all neatly arranged for instant reference. He waited for Box to sit down, looked fixedly at his inspector for what seemed to Box like minutes, and then began to speak.
‘Over the last few days, Box,’ he said, ‘I have been reading through your reports on these murders in Clerkenwell and Carshalton, together with your account of what seems to have been a social visit to Professor Roderick Ainsworth out at Epsom.’
Box moved uneasily. In his mind he could hear the words of the phantom Knollys: ‘
All
we’ve
done
so
far
is
take
a
genteel
luncheon
with
our
only
suspect,
and
then
walked
away
from
him!
What
use
is
that?
Why
don’t
you
admit
defeat,
and
hand
the
case
over
to
someone
else
?’
‘Throughout your reports,’ Mackharness continued, ‘there are many references to the cult of Mithras, the significance of honey and mercury to the various kinds of sacrifice connected with Mithraism, and a very cogent account of your interview with – what was her name? – Miss Mary Westerham, an expert in these matters. Am I right in assuming that you regard all these details as germane to the cases in hand?’
‘You are, sir. I’m convinced that there is a hidden society at work, some kind of fanatical brotherhood that won’t scruple to sacrifice its members to the god of their choosing. I’m afraid that
I’ve made no progress in uncovering that brotherhood. For a time, I suspected Professor Ainsworth himself of being involved in the business, but I can see now that I was entirely mistaken. But it was his uncovering of that ancient shrine, sir, that animated the members of this secret cult to resume the abominations that I believe must have been practised there in antiquity—’
‘
Tripe
!’
Superintendent Mackharness’s face had grown redder and redder as Box talked. His sudden verbal explosion was
accompanied
by the crashing of one of his massive fists on the table. Box jumped in alarm, and stared at his master as though he had gone mad.
‘Tripe, I say! Tripe and drivel! I’m sorry to use such language, Box – I’m usually calling
you
to book for employing the
expressions
of the fishwife or Billingsgate porter – but I’m horrified to hear you spouting all that rot to me as though it were true. It’s not. I’ll tell you what it is: it’s obfuscation. Legerdemain. Do I have to tell you what has really happened in this case?’
‘Sir—’
‘Don’t interrupt. Just listen. We have here, Box, two murders. Never mind all the fancy dressing. Gregory Walsh was murdered in the Mithraeum by a single blow from an adze. I have the autopsy report here, on my desk. Abraham Barnes, the cement manufacturer out at Carshalton, was similarly murdered by a single blow from an adze. There’s the autopsy report on
that
.’
He flourished a paper briefly at Box, and then threw it down on the desk.
‘
Murders
,
Box! Not ritual sacrifices, offerings to pagan gods – where did you get those addled notions from? I blame the Press. That fellow Fiske started it all with his tosh in
The
Graphic.
Fiske is a dangerous man, because he can serve up ignorance in a dressing of erudition. All reporters do that – even the gentlemen of
The
Times
when it suits their convenience. Well, you’ve got to cleanse your mind of all that rot, Box, and concentrate on what it
is that you’re supposed to be investigating. Murders! Your task is to find the killer, and bring him to book. Why do people commit murders, Box? Come on, tell me that.’