The Gold Masters (14 page)

Inside, the building was alive with policemen. Two of them had taken down the plush curtains behind the platform, revealing a number of wires descending from the ceiling, and attached to pulleys. Some of them had heavy lead weights attached, and Inspector Box had just concluded an experiment in which, by letting one of the weights drop to the floor, he had reproduced the loud report that had accompanied Mrs Pennymint’s trance. He remembered, too, that she had not flinched at the sound. Either she had expected it, or her trance was genuine. After his visit to Brookwood, Box was inclined to the latter explanation.

Sergeant Kenwright, whose burly, bearded presence had
overawed
the crowd in the alley, slowly appeared on the platform, rising up inch by inch from some kind of pit below. It would have been a comic sight, if Box had not recalled the spirit of Tom Prentice, appearing before his overawed brother, Alexander.

‘How’s it done, Sergeant?’

‘It’s a rising platform, sir, raised and lowered by a cranked wheel down in the cellar. You see these thin tubes, attached to the
underside
of the platform? They’re fastened to a tiny little furnace with bellows, to pump coloured smoke up into the church. There’s a host of tricks and traps down there.’

Box had spotted the man calling himself Alexander Prentice in the crowd. He was now sitting forlornly in the police van outside. Like all the others connected with this den of superstitious deceit, he would be charged under the Vagrancy Act of 1824.

The search continued. Sergeant Knollys had found a little cramped office in the cellarage, and looked up from reading a book as Box entered.

‘Do you see this book, sir?’ said Knollys. ‘“The Psychic’s Warehouse Catalogue. High quality mechanical appliances to assist the medium. Only the finest materials used.”’ He flicked over the glossy pages, showing Box some of the items for sale from a private address in the Edgware Road. A clockwork rapping hand, for table tapping, 4s. Telescopic reaching-rods, from 2/6d. The
Complete Spirit Rapping Table, ‘for use in private apartments’, 21/- Slate writing; Sealed letter reading; Self-playing guitars. Luminous materialistic ghost. Phosphorescent paint Coloured spark wheels. Percussive light boxes. All at reasonable prices.

‘What a rotten place this is, sir!’ Knollys cried, throwing the book down on the table of the little office.

‘Yes, Jack, it is. Rotten to the core. I don’t suppose you remember the book on this shady business that came out in ’91? It was called,
The
Revelations
of
a
Spirit
Medium
,
and was a true confession by one of these so-called psychics It had to be
anonymous
, of course, but I happen to know that it was genuine. That book tells you all about the things for sale in that catalogue. By the time we’ve finished here, I expect we’ll find quite a few objects of that nature hidden in cupboards.’

They made their way back upstairs, where the searchers had discovered more false panels, sliding floorboards, and other devices calculated to deceive. Sergeant Kenwright was busy paying out a thin wire through his gloved hands and, as he did so, a fine white ‘ghost’ rather like a kite with a round head attached, floated down from a trap in the ceiling.

‘What will happen to these bloodsuckers, sir? We’ll round up the whole gang of them very soon, I should think. They’ll be so frightened after our raid that they’ll betray each other out of sheer funk, though Portman might be a tough nut to crack.’

‘Yes, Portman. We’ll save him to the last, Sergeant. By visiting him at his precious bank, we may be able to shake his confidence a little. As for all this deceit and chicanery, we can only see it punished under the terms of the 1824 Vagrancy Act.’

‘And what kind of punishment is that, sir?’

‘Hard labour in the House of Correction for a period not exceeding three months. Most of them get a month. We’ve seen enough here, Sergeant. All this rubbish will be collected, and produced in evidence before the magistrates. If I had my way – which I haven’t – I’d burn the whole place down.’

Outside, the devotees renewed their clamours on seeing Box and Knollys emerge. Several elderly women were kneeling on the pavement, holding up beseeching arms to Heaven. The men, silent now for the most part, regarded the police officers with surly
defiance
.

‘They’ll change their tune, sir,’ said Knollys, ‘when we produce all that proof of fraud and deceit. This will be the end for Madam Sylvestris.’

Box shook his head. Poor Jack! He’d seen many terrible things in his career, but evidently he’d never come across spiritualism before.

‘Change their tune? Oh, no, Jack, they won’t, you know! Madam Sylvestris will become a martyr. These devotees will pour fresh money into her coffers, and condemn the police as brutal unbelievers, conspiring with the Government and the Church of England to suppress the ‘truth’. Exposing rogues of this type, Sergeant, is a very unrewarding occupation. Still, we’re not in this job for rewards. We’d better get out to Belsize Park, now, and complete the morning’s good work.’

The police van halted at the beginning of Melbourne Avenue, Belsize Park, and Box, accompanied by Sergeant Knollys and the Scotland Yard Matron, stepped down into the road. Box pointed to an elegant closed carriage, with a glossy black horse between the shafts, drawn up in front of one of the opulent villas on the right side of the leafy road. An elderly coachman was busy loading a quantity of luggage on to the roof.

‘It looks as though we’re just in time,’ he said. ‘Word must have reached Madam Sylvestris of our visit to Mrs Pennymint. That’s number eight, and those trunks on the pavement suggest that our spiritual lady friend is doing a flit.’

The matron, a capable-looking woman in her forties, dressed discreetly in civilian clothing, treated her companions to a grim smile. Also known as the ‘female searcher’, or more prosaically as
‘the search woman’, she had a long experience of consorting with the more unspeakable specimens of her own sex.

‘You may have trouble with this lady, Mr Box,’ she said. ‘They usually like to make a fuss, these fake mediums, in the hope that their plight will get into the papers. There’ll be no need to search her, though. We’re not taking her
in
flagrante
,
producing spirit babies from her leg-of-mutton sleeves.’

‘I hope there’s no trouble, Kate,’ Box replied. ‘But after what happened to PC Lane, I’m in no mood for compromise. She’ll walk down the road with us to the van, and behave herself, or she’ll be carried there! Come on, let’s get it over and done with.’

They walked up the garden path, and Knollys rapped sharply on the door. A face peered briefly at them through a stained-glass panel in the door, which was opened cautiously. A housemaid, her face darkened by a suspicious frown, peered out at them.

‘Who are you? Madam can see no one today. She is about to embark upon a journey—’

‘We are police officers,’ said Box curtly. At the same time he pushed the door open. He, Knollys and the matron entered the house.

Madam Sylvestris stood halfway up the stairs. She was dressed in the height of fashion, and from her shoulders hung a beautifully cut travelling cloak. A wide-brimmed hat adorned with trimmed ostrich feathers proclaimed itself as being one of the latest Bond Street creations. Handsome and haughty, she looked every inch a lady.

‘Who are you?’ asked Madam Sylvestris in icy tones. ‘Upon what pretence do you force yourself into a lady’s house? I am at this very moment leaving for a visit to the North. Céline, fetch my mauve silk parasol.’

Box slowly mounted the stairs, fixing the lady all the time with his steady gaze. He placed his hand lightly on her arm.

‘You are Ada Silvers, née Mullins,’ he said, ‘alias Almena Sylvestris. I am arresting you under the terms of the Vagrancy Act,
1824, in that you did, at London, in several and divers locations, pretend or profess to tell fortunes, and did use subtle crafts and other means or devices, by palmistry or otherwise, to deceive and impose on any or several of Her Majesty’s subjects; and that you did falsely purport to raise up the spirits of the dead; for all which things you are to be deemed a common rogue and vagabond, and taken up accordingly.’

He had scarcely finished speaking when the maid, Céline, flung herself up the staircase, collapsed at Madam Sylvestris’s feet, and turned to face Box and his companions like a terrified animal at bay.

‘Assassins!’ she shrieked. ‘Murderers! Why do you wish to butcher a saint? Who will help us? Cowards!’

‘Hush, faithful one,’ said Madam Sylvestris calmly, and with infinite dignity. ‘This gross man and his companions are
imprisoned
in their envelopes of clay. Such people cannot discern the spiritual in mankind. But we know that the Powers will come to our aid – look! There, in the hall’ – her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper – ‘standing beside that cruel woman: it is the Archangel Michael!’

‘Strewth!’ muttered Box. Kate had been right. They were going to make a show of him. He could see a few curious neighbours already hovering in the porch. He couldn’t cope with all this fancy talk.

‘Holy Michael, Archangel,’ Céline shrieked, now clutching her mistress’s knees, ‘defend us in the day of battle! Be thou our defence against the wickedness and snares of the Devil!’ Abandoning English, she launched into a volley of French. To Box’s infinite relief, Kate the Matron suddenly took charge of the situation.

‘Hold your noise, young woman,’ she said, at the same time prising Céline’s arms away from Madam Sylvestris’s knees. ‘One more peep out of you, and we’ll take you in, too, to keep your mistress company. And no more talk of angels from either of you,
do you hear? We’ll have no blasphemy here.’

Céline, suddenly subdued, walked meekly down the stairs, and stood beside Sergeant Knollys.

‘And you, madam,’ said the matron, ‘must obey the warrant and come with us. You can walk with dignity, and unmanacled, to the police van on the corner, or you can be handcuffed, and carried there by police officers. Which is it to be?’

Madam Sylvestris walked calmly downstairs into the hall. She treated Box and Knollys to a cold bow. Both men marvelled at her impudent audacity.

‘Céline,’ she said, ‘you had better secure the house, and make the journey up to Newcastle yourself. I will join you there as soon as my business with these people is over and done with. Go now, dear girl. Say no more. The Powers are with us both.’

After Madam Sylvestris had been safely lodged in the local police station, Box and Knollys, armed with their search warrant, returned to the house in Belsize Park. The French maid, and the elderly coachman, had departed in their mistress’s carriage, but a kind of woman caretaker readmitted them to the house, and raised no objection to their conducting a search. Evidently, she had not been in her mistress’s confidence.

In the first-floor seance room they found the curtained alcove. A thorough examination of the floor beneath the medium’s chair revealed yet another contraption for pumping coloured smoke into the room. Behind the chair, concealed in the panelling, there was a secret door, leading into a small windowed room.

‘They’d pump up the ghostly smoke, Sergeant,’ said Box, ‘and then through the swirling mists the spirits would appear –
accomplices
, making their entrance through that secret door.’

‘And not only accomplices,’ said Knollys, glancing quizzically at Box.

‘No, Sergeant, not only accomplices. Because on one occasion at least it was a little baby girl who was pushed through that panel
– a little toddler, who could scarcely yet speak. And so poor Lane saw his Catherine Mary, and was promised that, the next time he came, he could hold her. He sent me a note, telling me that. Unless I’m very much mistaken, our haughty Madam Sylvestris will do three months’ hard labour for this.’

The hidden room contained an array of reaching-rods, hand bells, and other paraphernalia of fakery. One cardboard box was full of strips of muslin, some of it unpleasantly damp.

‘Ectoplasm,’ said Box. ‘It exudes from the medium’s mouth, and is supposed to give form and substance to the spirit visitors. They swallow it first, and regurgitate it to order. Disgusting. Come on, Jack. Let’s get back to town and make our way to the Strand. It’s time to deal with Mr Arthur Portman, the man behind the mediums.’

They saw the frantic, screaming crowd besieging Peto’s Bank as they rounded the corner from Wellington Street. Box estimated their strength at over 200 desperate souls, all driven by the single desire to get their deposits back in gold. The traffic in the Strand had ground to a halt. Passengers on the open top decks of omnibuses were standing up to get a better view of the frightening scene.

‘Blimey! It’s a run on the bank, Sergeant,’ said Box. ‘There have been rumours about Peto’s for weeks. Look, here’s a crowd of our lads pouring out of Southampton Street. Let’s join them, and see what we can do.’

‘What about Portman, sir?’

‘He’s probably in need of being rescued at the moment, Sergeant Knollys. His connection with the Temple of Light can keep for the moment. Look at that!’

The tall double doors of the main entrance to the bank were heaving to and fro as the incensed crowd tried to pull them open, and terrified members of staff inside the bank attempted to keep them closed. A dozen police officers, their minds intent on their duty to restore public order, had begun to restrain parts of the crowd, and to corral them in the gardens adjoining the stricken
bank. One burly sergeant recognized Box, and saluted him.

‘Sergeant Davies,’ said Box, ‘I want to get inside that place. Can you help?’

‘Come round to the back of the premises, sir. We’re already in full control there. There’s a rear entrance to the bank – a staff entrance, it is – you can gain access to the banking hall through that.’ Sergeant Davies, an elderly, weather-bronzed man, shook his head sadly. ‘It’s a shame to see respectable folk behaving like savages, sir. A good number of them are gentlemen. There was a sudden rumour this morning that the bank was failing, and within half an hour the place was besieged.’

‘What’s it like inside?’

‘All hell’s let loose, sir. Inspector Paulet doesn’t want us to draw truncheons, in case it leads to bloodshed, so we’ve left them to it. What we
should
do—’

‘Yes, Sergeant, go on.’

‘Well, Mr Box, I think we should do a baton charge and drive them all back into the Strand. Emotions are high, as they say, and it’s like a tinderbox in there. Anything could happen. Assault, battery – maybe arson, in which case they’ll all perish together.’

They had been hurrying along the narrow alley beside the gardens while Sergeant Davies was talking, and in moments they had reached the rear of Peto’s Bank. What looked like a whole company of police were drawn up in a formidable line from the rear entrance to the detached coach house belonging to the bank.

‘In here, sir,’ said Sergeant Davies, unlocking a door. ‘I’ll leave this door unlocked and guarded while you’re in there. If you need— What’s that?’

A tremendous noise of shattering glass came to them, followed by a kind of hysterical cheer.

‘The crowd’s breaking the front windows, Sergeant,’ said Box. ‘They’re turning into a mob by the sound of it, and if they’re not stopped, they’ll start looting, and it won’t just be Peto’s who’ll suffer. Tell Mr Paulet, will you? Tell him to charge and disperse,
before it’s too late. Come on, Sergeant Knollys, it’s time for you and me to venture inside.’

Even as the door was closed behind them they could both hear the terrifying baying and shouting coming from the banking hall at the front of the stricken building. As they walked along the corridor facing them, the noise became louder, and when they pushed open a door half concealed behind a pillar, the full force of the bedlam made them stagger with shock.

The main hall of Peto’s Bank was a lofty and magnificent chamber, flanked by massive pillars of variegated marble. The long mahogany counter faced the main doors, and above it stood a long ornate balcony, its front balustrade incorporating a magnificent gilded clock. The vaulted ceiling was painted to resemble that of the Sistine Chapel.

Box and Knollys recorded all this grandeur almost
unconsciously
, because it was not dead marble but living and enraged humanity that riveted their attention. What must have started as an anxious crowd of clients had developed into a mass of
struggling
, fearful men, most of them clutching pass-books, and surging forward towards the counter.

There were a dozen pale-faced clerks manning the long counter, and Box could see their mouths moving as they indulged in
hopeless
conversations and entreaties with a string of men who were shouting and banging their clenched fists on the counter. Among the clerks Box saw the elegant figure of Arthur Portman, the Chief Counter Clerk, his face as ashen as those of his colleagues. Soon, Box, thought, some frantic depositor is going to leap over that counter….

The general bedlam suddenly soared into a howl of execration as Lord Jocelyn Peto appeared on the balcony. He was flanked by a number of directors, but Box had eyes only for the man whom he had interviewed at Duppas Park House just over a week earlier. Lord Jocelyn’s face was entirely drained of colour, so that he looked like an image of wax. He was trembling violently, and one
of the directors had taken hold of his arm in order to support him. His lips moved, at first without sound, and then he attempted to speak.

The noise in the banking hall rose to a crescendo. Objects standing on the counter were seized and hurled up at the balcony. Box saw a steel inkwell rise in an arc and then fall, scattering ink on to the frantic crowd. Why didn’t Paulet do something? Lord Jocelyn staggered back, and was hustled away out of sight. Poor man! thought Box. His face had expressed a knowledge of his total ruin.

It was then that Arnold Box, casting an eye over the crowd from the safety of the pillar where he stood, saw Louise Whittaker. Half fainting, she was still clutching her pass book, and was being supported by an elderly man whose attentions were divided between his concern for a young woman in distress and the prospect of his own impending beggary.

Jack Knollys had also seen Louise, and without waiting for Box to speak, suddenly began to carve his way through the crowd. It was impossible for anyone to impede the giant sergeant’s progress, and Box had the sense to swallow his pride and follow in his wake.

When Louise saw Arnold Box, she burst into tears. It was obvious to both men that she was terrified, and that their priority was to get her out of that raging, mindless bedlam. She tried to speak, but Box put a finger to his lips, while Knollys, circling her with his massive arms, all but dragged her back through the throng to the safety of the pillar. They slipped through the door to the rear passage, and immediately the hideous noise receded.

‘Jack,’ said Box, scarcely looking at his weeping lady friend, ‘will you get her out of here? Take her in a cab to Miss Drake’s rooms in Westminster. I must go back in there. Inspector Paulet’s let this business go on too long.’

It was then that Box spared Louise a glance. He put a hesitant hand on her arm.

‘You’ll be all right, won’t you? Jack will take care of you.’

Louise Whittaker managed a smile through her tears.

‘Yes, Mr Box,’ she replied, ‘I’ll be all right.’

Jack Knollys hurried her away, a brawny arm round her
shoulders
. Box returned to the fray. As he re-entered the stricken banking hall the tall front doors suddenly crashed open, and a dozen constables, truncheons drawn, poured into the bank. They were led by a very smart, middle-aged inspector with bristling, indignant moustaches, who glanced briefly at Box, and then put a whistle to his lips. The piercing blast had the effect of immediately silencing the crowd, and Box wondered why he hadn’t thought of such a simple and obvious expedient.

As the police took up their positions along the walls, Box saw the embryo mob quite suddenly revert to a collection of
individuals
, fearful for their immediate future, and privately appalled at what they had been doing. Inspector Paulet disappeared from sight for a while, and then re-emerged on the balcony where the
unfortunate
Lord Jocelyn had tried and failed to address his frantic depositors.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Paulet, in a firm, calm voice, ‘Peto’s Bank is closed for business today. I suggest that you all go home now, and wait for an official announcement from the chairman and
directors
. No charges of any kind will be made against you, and you are free to go about your business. Please disperse now.’

The raging mob had turned into a docile and bewildered flock of sheep. In less than five minutes the banking hall was empty. One of the constables closed and barred the heavy doors.

‘Mr Paulet,’ said Box, raising his hat, ‘is it in order for me to congratulate you?’

Inspector Paulet smiled wryly, and glanced round the deserted room. Pass books, trodden hats, sticks and umbrellas littered the inlaid marble floor.

‘Congratulate me if you must, Mr Box,’ he said. ‘I’ve no
objection
! I left them in here to stew in their own juice while I cleared the outside. They were trapped in here, you see, by the mob
pressing against the doors. Had they panicked in here when they thought they couldn’t get out, there would have been deaths. Asphyxiation, you know. And what were you doing here, anyway? Surely you didn’t bank with Peto’s?’

‘No, Mr Paulet, the Post Office Savings Bank’s good enough for me. I came here to speak to Mr Portman, the Chief Counter Clerk – where are they, by the way? The clerks, I mean. The counter’s deserted.’

‘They’ve been sent home. Superintendent Rice is out at the back While the poor clients were making themselves scarce, he told all the bank staff to go. We’ll secure the premises until we hear from the directors.’

‘I wonder what became of Lord Jocelyn Peto? He appeared on the balcony for a few moments, and tried to speak, but he was howled down. He disappeared, then.’

‘He came out through the back entrance, Mr Box, together with two of his directors. He looked devastated. Ruined. I don’t think he heard half of what was said to him. He’s been taken back to Croydon. Well, I can’t stand round gossiping. I must make all safe here, and then go about my business. Good day, Mr Box.’

‘It was terrible, Vanessa. Men I had seen in the bank before – gentlemen – were howling like beasts in a zoo. Then Arnold appeared, and you, dear Mr Knollys, and dragged me out of the nightmare— Oh, dear!’

Louise Whittaker broke down in tears, and hid her face in her hands. She lay on the sofa in the little living-room of her friend Vanessa Drake in her lodgings near Dean’s Yard, Westminster. It was a tall, gaunt building, once the convent of an Anglican
sisterhood
, that had been converted into sets of rooms for single women. Jack Knollys thought: she’s very beautiful, and very clever, and I don’t wonder that the guvnor fell for her. But she can’t stand up to physical stress. Not like Cornflower….

He looked at Vanessa Drake, who was talking quietly to her
friend. Vanessa’s blonde hair was pulled back in businesslike fashion behind her ears. Her intensely blue eyes shone with the eagerness of youth – she was still only twenty – but also with an excitement born of her reckless physical courage. He had loved her from their first encounter. What Cornflower had seen in
him
was still beyond his comprehension!

‘Lie there quietly, Louise,’ Vanessa was saying. ‘I’ll make us both a cup of tea, and yours shall have a dollop of medicinal brandy in it!’

Vanessa and Knollys left the room, and walked down the corridor that led to the small communal kitchen. Jack Knollys paused at a window overlooking one of the ornate parapets of the neighbouring Westminster Abbey.

‘Vanessa,’ he said, ‘twice in as many weeks I’ve disappointed you by cancelling visits to the theatre. I’m worried in case you think that I’m deliberately neglecting you – putting my duty to the police before my duty to you, like poor Arthur Fenlake.’

Vanessa Drake smiled up into her fiancé’s eyes.

It’s not the same thing at all, Jack,’ she said. ‘With Arthur, I was an outsider. He was forced to stay silent about his Foreign Office work, and so there was a more or less permanent gulf between us. But it’s different with you, and with Mr Box. We’ve all worked together for the secret services, and we’ve all had the most
incredible
adventures together. So when you send word that you can’t come out with me to the Alhambra, or wherever it is, I know there’s a good reason. Just as you’d understand if Colonel Kershaw were to come here one morning and tell me to take a train to Scotland, or a boat to Norway. You’re not to worry about it, do you hear, you great silly boy! Now, leave me alone to make some tea for poor Louise.’

On his way back to King James’s Rents Jack Knollys thought of Mrs Pennymint’s sudden intuition that he was worried about Vanessa, and her assurance that he was worrying needlessly. She’d been right. Whatever the truths or otherwise of spiritualism, that lady had been able to read minds.

The City began to panic that very evening, 2 August, 1893. Two famous discount houses, both dependent on Peto’s Bank, suspended business, and by eight o’clock it was learnt that Samuel French, the merchant banker, had ceased trading. It was predicted that there would be further failures, and that the frail structure of financial credit was in imminent danger of collapse.

The late editions of the newspapers contained a statement from the Bank of England, declaring that Peto’s Bank was still solvent, and that if depositors would only stay their hand, the stricken house would soon recover. The statement was of no avail. The evening crowds in the Strand stopped to look at the black and white posters pasted over the door and windows of Peto’s Bank, looking like newspaper placards,
CLOSED. CLOSED. CLOSED
. There was a finality about the notices that convinced more than any declaration to the contrary from the Bank of England.

In Superintendent Mackharness’s mildewed office on the first floor of 4 King James’s Rents, Box listened to his superior officer, who sat behind his big desk. The special warrant to search Sir Hamo Strange’s vaults at Carmelite Pavement lay on his blotter. It was a close, dull evening, with a thin rain falling.