The Ledbury Lamplighters (17 page)

‘That is good. I must say this is all rather mysterious. Why a complete stranger would deposit a package with Mr Midwinter, leaving instructions that it should be delivered to my father in the event of his own demise, is certainly baffling,’ said the banker, regaining his seat.

‘I trust that when we have opened the envelope we may all be wiser on that point. I should point out to you, Mr Montacute, that I journeyed to London, where I discovered that the man Robertson had been employed as a coachman in the employ of Sir James Stanhope,’ said Ravenscroft, casting a glance around the room with its fine mahogany furniture, ornate carpet and austere portraits of what he supposed were the bank’s former partners.

‘Sir James is well known to me. He has an account with our London offices in Mayfair,’ interjected Maurice.

‘I learnt that the man had left his employ on Christmas Eve with the express purpose of travelling to Ledbury, and that he had been afraid that an attempt would be made to recover the documents from him had he remained in London. I trust, Mr Midwinter, that you have the envelope upon your person?’ asked Ravenscroft anxiously.

‘I do indeed have it here, Inspector,’ replied the solicitor, taking
the envelope from his coat pocket and laying in on the desk before him. ‘Your constable escorted me from my offices to the bank, in case any further attempts should be made. I must say that I will be somewhat relieved to be rid of the thing.’

‘Robertson left clear instructions that the envelope was to be opened only by the senior partner of the bank, namely Mr Nathaniel Montacute. As you have now taken over that position, then it falls to you, sir, to open the envelope,’ said Ravenscroft, addressing the banker.

Maurice reached for the paper knife on his desk and slid the blade under the flap of the package. Ravenscroft and Midwinter leaned forward as the banker withdrew the contents from the envelope and placed them on the desk. ‘We seem to have a letter, which is addressed to my father, on this piece of paper. The other item would appear to be some kind of handwritten book,’ said Maurice.

‘Perhaps we should begin with the letter,’ suggested the solicitor.

‘Yes indeed,’ replied the banker, beginning to read the contents of the letter out loud:

‘What a strange letter,’ said Midwinter after Maurice had laid the letter down on the desk.

‘It appears to be unsigned,’ said Ravenscroft, staring down at the writing, ‘but clearly Nathaniel would have known who the author was. The writer refers to an event which resulted in a rift between the writer and your father many years ago.’

‘I must say that I am at a loss. If my father had still been alive, then clearly he would have been able to identify the author,’ said a bewildered Maurice.

‘I believe I know the identity of the writer. Your father had a brother, Mr Montacute, called Robert, who was born fifteen years after himself, in 1843. The coachman, Robertson, was none other than Robert Montacute!’ said Ravenscroft.

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Midwinter. ‘How on earth do you know that?’

‘This morning I spent some time examining the parish registers at the church here in Ledbury,’ replied Ravenscroft. ‘You do not recall your uncle, Mr Montacute?

‘Yes, I have a distant memory of him. I was born in 1856. When I was six or seven years of age, I can remember him leaving, that is all.’

‘Did your father ever mention the cause of the breach between himself and your uncle?’

‘He did mention to me upon one occasion that he and his younger brother had fallen out. All he said was that there had been some financial irregularity in the affairs of the bank, and that Robert had left in a hurry to avoid the scandal,’ said Maurice, shifting uneasily in his chair.

‘So Robert Montacute left the town of his birth, moved to London, where he changed his name to Robertson and gained employment as a coachman. That would explain why he always kept a print of Ledbury church in his bedside cabinet, to remind
him of the churchyard where his parents lay buried. Over twenty-five years later he returned to the town, only to be struck down before he could return to the capital. Your uncle clearly feared for his own life while he was in possession of the enclosed book, and in his hour of need turned to the only person he could trust, your father,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘But if all this is true, why did this Robertson – sorry, Robert Montacute – insist on leaving the book with me instead of giving it directly to his brother here at the bank?’ asked Midwinter.

‘Because he hoped that he would not need to do so. He hoped that by returning to his employment the matter would die down and that whoever was seeking to obtain the book from him would give up his purpose. By leaving the book with you, Mr Midwinter, he could return again at a later date and recover his package. By instructing you to see that his brother obtained the enclosed book in the event of his own death, he was ensuring that it would fall into the right hands. In the letter he requests that Nathaniel return the book to “your Illustrious Client, who will take the appropriate steps to safeguard the future welfare of our country”.’

‘We have many illustrious and important clients who come from all walks of life – prominent clergymen, the aristocracy, parliamentarians, even several members of the royal family,’ said a bewildered Maurice.

‘Perhaps if we read the journal, we might be able to ascertain who this illustrious client is?’ suggested Midwinter.

‘It would perhaps be better if you were to read it out loud, Inspector?’ said the banker, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands.

‘Very well, gentlemen,’ said Ravenscroft, reaching out for the book and opening it at the first page, after first adjusting his spectacles. ‘The book indeed appears to be some kind of journal, written in neat copper plate writing. The initials A and V have been written on the outside of the volume. The first few pages seem to have been torn out. The first entry reads:

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Midwinter, interrupting Ravenscroft’s reading of the diary.

‘I do not think we need to hear any more,’ said Maurice.

‘He seems to be describing some kind of male brothel!’ said Midwinter, growing red in the face and becoming increasingly agitated by what he had just heard.

‘I think you are correct, gentlemen. I must admit that when I learnt that Robertson was used to taking his master, Sir James Stanhope, to Cleveland Street, the name of the street appeared familiar to me, but I could not recall the reason why. Now I
remember that the place had been under observation by the local police force a year or so ago, when it was suspected as being some kind of den of male prostitution, but nothing was proven at the time.’

‘This is absolutely appalling,’ said the solicitor, turning away. ‘Had I known that the packet within my safe contained such a book of degradation I would have removed it instantly and thrown it on the fire!’

‘The diary mentions Stephen, Sir James Stanhope, Arthur Somerset and a person by the name of Hammond. We know that Sir James was the employer of Robertson, your uncle, and Hammond would appear to be the owner of the male brothel. I don’t know who either Stephen or Arthur Somerset are,’ said Ravenscroft, turning over the pages of the handwritten diary.

‘I may be able to help you there. Arthur Somerset is probably Lord Arthur Somerset, an equerry to the Prince of Wales,’ replied Maurice.

‘This is dreadful!’ exclaimed Midwinter. ‘To think that someone close to the heir of the throne is used to visiting such dens of iniquity.’

‘There is worse, gentlemen. It appears that the Cleveland Street brothel was visited by a number of other prominent people, including at least one member of the cabinet and two prominent churchmen,’ said Ravenscroft, leafing through the pages of the journal. ‘I can see now why this book was so important, and why your uncle took great pains to see that it did not fall into the wrong hands. Such knowledge, if it ever became public, could almost certainly bring down the government as well as inflicting great harm on the royal family.’

‘We must burn the wretched book straightaway!’ demanded Midwinter.

‘I wonder who wrote the journal? You say there are the letters A and V on the front of the work?’ asked Maurice.

‘I think I can provide us with the answer to that question, gentlemen,’ said Ravenscroft. ‘Your uncle has already given us a clue in his letter when he says that your father is to give the book to “his Illustrious Client so that the appropriate steps may be taken to safeguard the future welfare of our country”. I think I am correct in assuming that your illustrious client is none other than His
Royal Highness the Prince of Wales?’

‘You are indeed correct, Mr Ravenscroft. The Prince is indeed one of our most important clients. His account is deposited with our London offices in Mayfair. I have had the pleasure of meeting the Prince once or twice myself, although my father took overall responsibility for the safeguarding of the royal account. But why should my father give the book to the Prince?’ asked a puzzled Maurice.

‘Because the journal is written by his son! The initials A and V stand for Prince Albert Victor!’ said Ravenscroft.

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Midwinter.

‘Your uncle was instructing your father, in his letter, to see that the book be given to the Prince of Wales, so that the Prince could learn of his son’s deviation, and so that appropriate steps could be taken by the Prince to bring his son back into line and to suppress any attempt to make the matter public,’ said Ravenscroft.

‘This is all quite dreadful. Prince Albert Victor is the eldest son of His Highness the Prince of Wales. One day, when our beloved Queen has passed on, and the Prince after her, then this depraved person will sit on the throne of England!’

A long silence followed Midwinter’s utterance, as each of the three men began to slowly absorb the significance of the book which now lay before them on the banker’s desk, and the future implications that could possibly follow.

‘If any of this was made public—’ began Maurice, eventually breaking the silence.

‘Then almost certainly the monarchy would fall,’ added Ravenscroft.

‘It does not bear thinking about. To think that dreadful man will one day be the ruler of our country! I cannot comprehend such a dreadful situation, gentlemen. I am only glad to know that I shall be long gone by the time that state of affairs comes to fruition. We must destroy the book at once and swear an oath of secrecy never to divulge to anyone what we have learnt in this room today,’ suggested the solicitor.

‘By all means let us swear together an oath, but to destroy the book would prevent us from discovering who killed both your uncle and your father, Mr Montacute. Robertson was killed because it was thought that the package was still upon his person; later
when his killer discovered that the package lay within the safe of your office, Mr Midwinter, he tried to retrieve it, wounding my constable in the attempt. If we destroy this journal tonight, the killer may learn that we have done so, and will abandon his quest, and thereby escape justice for his crimes. If, on the other hand, we are seen returning the package to your office and securing it within the confines of your safe, Mr Midwinter, then our killer will certainly try again to make another attempt to retrieve the document. As long as we have the package with its letter and journal inside, we still have an opportunity to catch the villain. Once we have him safe under lock and key then we can see that your uncle’s wishes are carried out and that the book is given to the Prince of Wales for him to do with it as he wishes,’ said Ravenscroft.