Mask of the Verdoy (17 page)

‘So, Mr. Pearson—what exactly would you like to know about my cousin?’

‘Well, Lady Euphemia—’

‘Actually, I prefer Miss Daubeney.’

‘Miss Daubeney … When did you last see Viscount Chantry?’

‘February the twelfth.’

‘That’s very precise,’ said Harley, placing his cup back in its saucer.

‘It was the eightieth birthday of our old housekeeper—Mrs. Dalton. All the family were gathered at Chantry Hall for the celebration, including Freddie.’

‘Any idea where he is now?’

‘Is he in trouble, Mr. Harley?’

‘Not that I know of—why do you ask?’

‘Well, the thing is—and it’s probably of no consequence but … well, we had an arrangement to meet at the theatre, and Freddie just didn’t show.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Let’s see now … just over two weeks ago.’

‘And did you try to contact him afterwards?’ asked Pearson.

‘Of course.’

‘But, no luck?’

‘No … but I wasn’t overly concerned. You see, I asked my uncle—Freddie’s father, Earl Daubeney—where he was.’

‘And?’

‘Well, it’s rather a private matter, actually.’

‘I assure you, Miss Daubeney, we wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.’

‘Anything you say to us here is off the record, of course,’ added Harley. ‘Trust me—we’re very discreet.’

‘Oh it’s nothing like that, Mr. Harley. It’s just that, as you are probably aware from the press coverage, Viscount Chantry leads a rather
colourful
social life. His actions don’t always meet with the approval of the Earl. When I asked after Freddie my uncle simply informed me that he
had to go away for a while
.’

‘And you didn’t push him any further than that?’

‘You obviously haven’t met my uncle, Mr. Harley. He’s a formidable character—not many people would have the pluck to “push” him, as you say. Besides, this isn’t the first time that Freddie has been persuaded to pull back on the reins a little. I wouldn’t read too much into it if I were you.’

She placed her cup and saucer back on the table and looked at the clock on the wall.

‘Well now, I really feel that I have discussed the matter as far as I’m prepared to at this time. So, unless there’s anything else I can help you with …’

‘There is one thing, miss,’ said Pearson. ‘Can you think of anything extremely valuable your cousin may have had in his apartment that might be particularly attractive to a burglar?’

Harley raised his eyebrows and Euphemia smiled.

‘Detective Constable—Freddie’s place is crammed with such items. Paintings, sculpture, silverware … we’re talking about Freddie Daubeney remember—“London’s most eligible bachelor”. I really wouldn’t know where to start. Now, I don’t wish to appear impolite, but there are a few loose ends that I simply must tie up before I leave.’

‘No problem,’ said Harley, grabbing his hat from the table. ‘You’ve been a great help, thank you … Oh, and we’ll be taking a taxi back into town—is there anywhere we can drop you?’

‘That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Harley, but my uncle lends me the use of a car and driver whenever I’m in London.’

‘Not that formidable then.’

‘Earl Daubeney has been extremely kind to me since I lost my father.’

‘Your father, yes, Richard Daubeney—a great man. You must be very proud. I’ve got one of his books at home, you know.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes—
Aspirin in the Ancient World
—I think that’s the title.’

‘Indeed it is. Well, well … You know, you really are a remarkable surprise, Mr. Harley.’

This time Harley met her smile full on.

‘So, do you feel that you’re following in your father’s footsteps, at all—with your work at the clinic?’

‘Without a doubt … You see, I had the great privilege of working closely with my father on his research into plant alkaloids and sulphonamides, and their use in fighting disease. During this research we saw again and again that poor nutrition and unhygienic surroundings were contributing factors in many of the most dangerous diseases—especially TB and diphtheria. Maybe that sounds obvious, but I’m not just talking about the direct effect on the patient of their
environment, but also the relevance of hereditary factors in the development of these diseases.’

‘What do you mean, exactly?’ asked Pearson.

‘Well, for example: the question whether a mother’s constitution, weakened by years of poverty, could be passed on to her offspring; whether a poor diet, insanitary accommodation, and the daily stress of suffering serious deprivation could somehow collude to recalibrate the genetic inheritance.’

‘Can that really happen?’ asked Harley.

‘It’s a little too early to draw any conclusions yet, I’m afraid; but we continue to build our collection of case studies. Here at the welfare drop-in we not only assist poorer families with their nutritional needs, but the staff—some of whom work alongside me at the clinic—also try to assess their general health, especially of the children, and encourage the mothers to attend the family clinic if necessary. There the medical team can attend to any immediate health issues, and if they are suitable candidates we can encourage them to take part in our research into hereditary influence in disease.’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come!’

A prim young woman with her hair in a bun popped her head around the door.

‘Miss Daubeney—your car is here.’

Euphemia stood up.

‘I’m afraid I really must be going, gentlemen … I’m not sure how helpful this has been for you.’

‘It’s been very interesting, believe me—it was good to meet you,’ said Harley, tipping his hat.

Pearson handed Euphemia a calling card. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could telephone me at the station if your cousin gets in touch, Miss Daubeney … By the way—is your uncle in London at the moment? I think it would be useful to ask him a few questions.’

‘He’s in town at the moment; but I’m not sure how much luck you’ll have in getting to see him. You may need to go through your superiors, Detective Constable. Earl Daubeney has … how shall I put it? A somewhat
traditional
approach to these matters.’

‘I understand. Well, thank you for your time.’

‘Not at all.’

She ushered Pearson and Harley through the kitchen and back into the hall.

‘And don’t forget, gentlemen—we’re always on the lookout for new volunteers!’

***

Outside on the steps Harley leant against a column and offered Pearson a Gold Flake.

‘Well, not much to go on there. Although it sounds like Munro was right about Fast Freddie’s little holiday.’

Pearson buttoned his coat up against the damp night air.

‘Handsome woman … You seemed to be getting on famously with her. “
You really are a remarkable surprise, Mr. Harley”!
’

‘Alright, alright! We were just talking about her work, that’s all. It’s interesting stuff, ain’t it?’

‘Yes, of course—that’s all it was,’ said Pearson with a smirk.

‘Oh, grow up, won’t yer?’

Harley nodded down the steps to a parked car.

‘That’s gotta be the Earl’s car—Rolls-Royce Phantom. Lovely motor.’

As they looked down the chauffeur emerged and began to wipe the windscreen with a chamois leather.

From further up the street there came the sound of a racing engine. Before long a maroon Austin 7 passed the Rolls at speed, almost losing control as it took the corner into Commercial Street. At the wheel was the Reverend Giles Pembroke.

‘The idiot!’ said Pearson. ‘He’ll kill someone, driving like that.’

‘Maybe it’s an emergency—got a soul to save somewhere … ’Ere—look at that, Pearson. That’s a bit odd, ain’t it?’

Harley pointed at the chauffeur who was walking around the bonnet of the car to reach the other side of the windscreen.

‘What?’

‘Well, when did you last see someone in service with face fungus like that?’

‘His beard?’

‘Yes, his beard—look at it. He looks like a sodding pirate!’

‘I suppose it is a little strange, now you mention it.’

‘Wouldn’t have thought a stickler like Earl Daubeney would put up with that. He’s a big bugger and all, ain’t he?’

Just then the doors to the hall opened and Euphemia appeared, struggling a little with a clutch of boxes and bags. Seeing his mistress in need of assistance, the chauffeur opened the driver’s door and threw the cloth back into the car.

‘Here—let me help …’ Harley called out, extinguishing his half-smoked cigarette with his foot and beginning to make his way towards Euphemia.

Down in the street the driver slammed the car door shut.

Night became day as the portico was engulfed in a terrific blast
.

Harley felt his feet leave the ground and then … time stretched … all was black … quiet …

***

He was somewhere cold, wet … Tentatively moving his fingers, he felt them drag across the slimy clay of the shell crater … He opened his eyes and hauled himself to a sitting position, checking arms, legs … all still in working order
.

A thunderous roar ripped the sky as the howitzers began a second barrage of covering fire to support the advance. He cursed and scrambled around in the filthy pool of stagnant water for his Lee-Enfield. Just as his hand struck against the cold metal of the rifle’s bolt a magnesium flare exploded above his head, flooding the gloom of the crater with its stark, blinding light, revealing the gaping legless torso of Corporal Jimmy Miller …

Private Harley closed his eyes and screamed …

***

Regaining consciousness Harley opened his eyes again to find himself back in the East End.

The area immediately in front of the hall had been ripped apart by the explosion. In the road—where a few seconds previously the sleek Rolls-Royce had stood—there was now a shallow crater holding a mangled chassis, fringed with sheets of torn metal. A pall of acrid smoke drifted slowly across the entrance to the church, now littered with the remnants of the iron railings, scattered like toothpicks across the steps.

In an echo of his dream Harley checked his limbs for injury before stumbling to his feet, shaking his head to try to rid it of a constant high-pitched whine. Deaf to any shouts for help he scanned the portico for Pearson and Euphemia, soon finding the policeman shuffling towards him on all fours, the left side of his face covered in blood.

Struggling a little with his coordination, Harley clumsily manoeuvred Pearson to a sitting position on the steps and began to check him over. Apart from a cut to the forehead and looking a little dazed, the policeman seemed to be intact. Harley took his handkerchief out and pressed it to the wound, pushing Pearson’s hand against it to keep it in place.

Harley was suddenly overcome by a wave of nausea; with his head spinning he slumped down on the step. There was a sharp crack as his hearing returned and he was immediately overwhelmed by a harrowing, whinnying scream. He stumbled to his feet and looked to the road for the source of the noise.

There, thrust against the wall of a neighbouring building, its back obviously broken, was a large drayman’s horse, screaming in agony. The stable boy who’d been leading his charge back to the nearby Truman’s brewery at the time of the explosion now lay like a tossed rag doll on the pavement, his neck set at an impossible angle against his shoulder.

During a pause in the screaming, as the dying animal refilled its lungs, Harley could just make out a more human sound—short gasps of panic coming from above, to his left.

He quickly made his way back up to the portico to find Euphemia slumped against one of the columns with her boxes and bags scattered around her, staring horrified at something in her lap.

Fearing a life-threatening injury Harley quickly searched amongst the contents of the luggage littered across the stone floor, grabbing a shawl to use to staunch the blood. But when he crouched by her side she appeared to be uninjured … and then he realized that the bloodstain on her lap came from the raw lump of dismembered hand that had landed there.

He snatched away the offending article and wrapped it quickly in the shawl, stuffing the bundle into his coat pocket.

‘Look at me! Miss Daubeney!
Look at me!
 … It’s gone now.’

She raised her eyes to his and managed a weak smile. He moved closer and brushed away a smear of dirt from her cheek.

‘You alright?’

She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards her, burying her face in his shoulder.

The hall doors now inched open and the prim girl with the bun tentatively peeked out.

‘Get someone to call an ambulance, and the police!’ shouted Harley. ‘And then come back out here—for Lady Euphemia.’

The girl continued to stare at Harley with wide eyes.

‘Tell them it’s another bomb—go now!
Now!
’

He sat and placed an arm around the shoulders of Euphemia, who began to cough as a gust of wind brought over another cloud of metallic-smelling smoke.

‘What’s that … that dreadful sound?’ asked Euphemia.

‘A horse—down in the street.’

‘Was it a bomb?’

‘It’s alright, the danger’s passed now.’

As Harley said this there came the distinctive sound of a gunshot.

‘Christ!
What now?
’

He stood up, just as the girl appeared at the door again.

‘Quickly—take her inside! Come on girl! And don’t come out again until the police arrive.’

He rushed down the steps—the gruesome package in his pocket thumping against his thigh—to find Pearson standing in the street, still clutching the bloodied handkerchief to his head. At his feet was the corpse of the drayman’s horse and in his hand, still emitting a few wisps of smoke, was a service revolver. He was staring at the body of the stable boy.

‘Fuck me, Albert! What’re you doing with that?’

‘Had to put him out of his misery—beyond help. My uncle keeps horses, it’s the kindest thing …’

‘Yeah, alright—but what are you doing with the shooter in the first place?’

‘Quigg said I might need it.’

‘Jesus! … Well, looks like Quigg was right, for once. D’you wanna do me a favour and put it away now, though—you’re making me nervous.’