Terror by Gaslight (10 page)

Apart from the chair and dressing table, the only furniture was a shabby red sofa and, as Timlin withdrew, the visitors lowered themselves awkwardly on to this.

‘We are private investigators,’ said Steele. ‘We hope you may be able to tell us about a man called Luke Scully.’

‘Luke Scully?’ The comedian sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Yeah. I can tell you a lot about Luke Scully. We used to work together.’

‘So I’m told,’ said Steele. ‘How long ago was that?’

‘Well … we’d been a double act for three or four years. And we split up about two years ago. Bit more, perhaps. I got sick of carrying him.’

‘Carrying him?’

‘Yeah. He weren’t no good no more. The demon drink.’ Charlie picked up the empty Guinness bottle for dramatic effect. ‘Drink’s a good whore, but a bad mistress.’ As his guests pondered these words of wisdom, he put down the bottle and continued. ‘Course, it weren’t the beer with Luke. Gin was his downfall. Mother’s ruin. Pickled himself in gin, silly bugger.’

‘And that affected his work, obviously.’

‘Not half. Forgot his words. Lost his timing. Picked fights with people. I had to give him the boot.’

‘How did he take that?’

‘Badly. Got very angry. And he could be violent, Luke Scully. Tried to fight me, poor sod. I gave him one little push and he fell over. Too sozzled to get up again.’

Steele was silent for a moment, thinking of Scully’s tendency to violence. Mason took up the questioning.

‘After the split, did you keep in touch?’

‘Couldn’t avoid it at first. He kept turning up, saying he was sorry and looking for a handout. I usually gave him a quid and told him to cut out the gin.’

‘Did he do any work?’

‘Not on stage, no one would have him. He was in the boxing booth at Hampstead fairground for a bit. He was quite handy with his fists, before the gin got him. He’d been a soldier once.’

Steele was alerted. ‘He’d been a soldier?’

‘Yeah. Weapons was always his hobby. ‘Course, they don’t allow weapons in a boxing booth, so he didn’t last long. Got what was left of his brains knocked out.’

‘What sort of weapons was he interested in?’

‘All sorts. He’d kept his pistol from the army, which you’re not supposed to do.’

Steele nodded. ‘Serious offence. We could hold him for that, if we need to.’ And then he added, ‘Once we find him. Anything else?’

‘Yeah. He used to mess around with some sort of bow and arrow. If he was somewhere like Clapham Common, he’d try to bring down a few birds. Oh yeah, and he had a knobkerrie. One of them things the fuzzy-wuzzies bash people with in South Africa.’ Charlie sniffed. ‘All a bloody waste of time.’

‘D’you know what he did after the boxing booth?’

‘He was working for some toffs up on the Highgate Road, gardening and odd jobs and such. I think he gave up drink for a bit; there was a girl up there he fancied.’

‘A girl?’

‘Yeah. Well, where Luke was concerned there was always
a girl. Or two. Or three. But I heard this one was special. Then it all went wrong. The toffs give him the sack, accused him of stealing. Course, that was well out of order. Luke’s done a lot of silly things but he was never a tea leaf. They say he was very bitter about that.’

Steele picked his words. ‘They say? You haven’t seen him yourself?’

‘Not for a year or more, eighteen months maybe. This is all gossip from the pub. The Black Swan, he still has a few mates there. They say he took it very hard, ended up hating all the toffs in Highgate. Started drinking again. Last I heard, he was living rough on the Heath.’

‘Can you tell us how to get hold of him?’

‘Very carefully,’ said Charlie. ‘Like I said, he can be violent.’ He laughed heartily at his little joke, then became respectful again. ‘Sorry. Yeah, I know what you’re asking but I don’t know the answer. You could try the public bar at the Black Swan. Or there’s an agent we both used to use, maybe Luke kept in touch with him. Ernie Treadwell, 63 Charing Cross Road.’

As Mason made a note, the door was flung open and a woman burst in, a shabby dressing gown flapping loosely over her underwear. Minus her splendid black wig, her mousey-coloured hair was in a mess and without her stage make-up her face was grey and starting to show a few wrinkles. In crumpled slippers, instead of high-heeled shoes, she seemed considerably shorter but, with mounting dismay, Steele and Mason began to recognize her.

‘For God’s sake, Charlie, give us a fag!’ implored the woman they knew as Olga. ‘Alfie’s gone and smoked the whole bleedin’ packet! I’m gasping!’

‘Mind your manners, Gladys!’ said Charlie. ‘I got two gentlemen here.’

‘Beg pardon,’ said the woman, drawing her dressing gown
closer around her. ‘Got the bailiffs after you again?’

‘No,’ said Charlie, reaching into a drawer for his cigarettes. ‘They’re trying to find Luke Scully.’

‘Cor!’ said the woman. ‘That toerag? Well, I can soon tell them where to find Luke Scully.’ She turned to the detectives. ‘Worth a quid, is it?’

In his austere little office at Dunblane, Charles Stone heard the thump of the front door knocker downstairs but he knew the manservant would answer it and, after a swift glance at his watch, he continued working on the accounts. They had got slightly disordered due to recent dramatic events and this would displease Dr Frankel, which was not a wise thing to do.

A minute later, bony knuckles rapped on his own door. ‘Come in,’ he called, and the door opened to admit Prosser and a youth, about eighteen years old, in working clothes.

‘This young man is from Slaughter’s,’ said Prosser.

‘Right,’ said Stone. ‘I’ll deal with this. Dr Frankel is not to be disturbed before eight o’clock.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘What is for dinner tonight?’

‘Sirloin steak,’ said Prosser. He was a man of few words.

‘Make sure it’s rare. And have a bottle of the Burgundy decanted.’

Prosser left the room without response, closing the door behind him. The youth seemed nervous. He advanced to the desk, took a large envelope from inside his rough jacket, and handed it to the secretary. Stone slit it open with a large metal paper-knife, which was rather sharper than it needed to be, and checked the contents.

Satisfied after a minute’s perusal, he put the envelope in a drawer on the left-hand side of his desk. Then he opened a drawer on the right-hand side, took out a package wrapped in brown paper, and gave it to the youth. ‘Instructions are
inside,’ he said.

The youth turned to go but Stone stopped him. ‘One moment, young man,’ he commanded.

The youth, somewhat alarmed, turned back to face Charles Stone, who was looking stern.

‘Dr Frankel tells me our arrangement will have to be renegotiated,’ said the secretary. ‘His costs have increased, and the business is dangerous.’

The youth had trouble with the word ‘renegotiated’ but he grasped the essence of what Stone had said. ‘I don’t know nothing about that,’ he protested. ‘You’ll have to talk to Mr Slaughter.’

‘Exactly,’ said Stone. ‘Tell Slaughter to come in person next time.’

Winter had come early to Lambeth: the two tired-looking trees that graced Gravelly Road had long since shed their leaves, and their bare branches glistened with moisture. Some sparrows hopped around the railings that fronted the basement steps, chirruping bravely to keep their spirits up, but it was a bleak scene. Both sides of the street were lined with long rows of grey terraced houses that had seen better days.

When Steele and Mason reached number 53, they were heartened by the first show of human spirit in that long thoroughfare: an aspidistra in the front window offered some defiance to the general gloom.

Mason raised the knocker and rapped three times on the black front door. After half a minute he rapped again. There was a further short delay, then the door was opened halfway and a female face peered round it. It was a grey, weary-looking face, and it registered suspicion.

‘Yes?’ said the woman.

‘Madge Scully?’ asked Steele.

‘Yes,’ said the woman again. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Henry Steele and this is John Mason. We’re inquiry agents.’

Now the woman’s face expressed alarm. ‘You’re police!’

‘No, we’re not. We’re private citizens. One thing we do is try to bring people together, or put them in touch. We have a message for Mr Scully from his friend Charlie Challis.’

‘Charlie Challis? Cuh!’ The woman’s voice was bitter. ‘Fine friend he turned out to be!’

‘We also bring greetings to you from your sister Gladys. It was she who told us your husband was here.’

‘Oh. Gladys.’ The voice was now a little more amenable. ‘Is she all right?’

‘Gladys is fine,’ said Steele. ‘We saw her last night at the Camden Alhambra. She and Alfred are a big success.’

‘That’s a nice change,’ said the woman.

‘People were remarking on her fine Cossack cheekbones.’ Mason couldn’t resist the jibe.

‘What?’ Madge Scully was bemused.

Steele smiled tolerantly. The men’s relationship had always thrived on a little gentle ribbing.

‘Your sister is in good health and hopes to see you next time they play south London,’ he said.

‘Well … give her my love. And thanks for bringing Charlie’s message.’

She seemed about to shut the door but Mason’s foot had somehow edged on to the threshold. And then her eye was caught by Steele feeling in his waistcoat pocket, and producing what looked like gold coins.

‘We haven’t delivered the message yet,’ Steele pointed out. ‘Also, the Camden manager has discovered that Mr Scully is still owed some money from last time he worked there. He’s asked us to bring it to him.’

‘Oh. That’s good.’ The woman opened the door wider and reached out for the cash. ‘I’ll give it to him.’

‘I’m afraid we must hand it over to him in person. We have to get him to sign a receipt.’

‘Oh,’ said the woman again. ‘Well, I suppose you’d better come in.’ At last the door was fully opened and the men entered. The woman led them through what might have been called the hall, but was actually a dark passage.

‘I’ll have to find out if Luke can see you,’ she cautioned. ‘He’s not well, you know.’

‘No,’ said Steele. ‘We didn’t know that.’

‘You could have guessed. If he was well, he wouldn’t be home here, would he? He’d be up north of the river, chasing girls and toadying to the toffs.’

They reached a door at the end of the passage. Mrs Scully knocked, opened it an inch, and called out, ‘Luke! There’s two visitors to see you!’

The voice from within was weak and unwelcoming. ‘I can’t see no one. I’m ill.’

‘They’ve got some money for you!’

The pause was short, and the voice became less hostile. ‘All right. Tell ’em they can have five minutes.’

Mrs Scully opened the door wide and the men went into a small, depressing room, which contained little more than a narrow bed and a wooden cabinet beside it. On the cabinet stood a large china bowl, with a water jug standing in it. Beneath the cabinet was a chamber pot, mercifully empty.

One look at the wreck of a man in front of them was enough to answer the question that had brought them here. Through gaps in a torn nightshirt, an emaciated body could be seen, shiny with sweat. The face was deathly white, with watery eyes sunk deep in dark sockets, and cheekbones strained against papery skin. Thin arms moved slowly and painfully, as the man tried to prop himself upright against the pillows. The effort exhausted him and he fought for breath, which came in short gasps.

Having no warning of their visit, Scully could not be dissembling. Anyway, no actor could simulate quite that degree of human devastation. So it was certain that Scully had not been stabbing and murdering people on Hampstead Heath in the last month.

Still, he might have some useful background information. Steele and Mason advanced to the bedside. ‘Good morning, Mr Scully,’ said Steele, with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. ‘Charlie Challis sent a message.’

‘Yeah?’

‘He said, “Cut out the gin.”’

This affront raised a small spark of animation in the invalid. He seemed about to spit but then, remembering his wife’s presence, confined himself to a contemptuous snort and moved on to the important matter. ‘You got some money for me?’ He held out a shaky hand.

Steele put three sovereigns in the palm. ‘You’re owed this from your last job at the Camden Alhambra.’ He didn’t bother to pursue the fiction about the receipt.

‘Blimey!’ wheezed Scully. ‘That’ll be three years ago! Mean sods! Three years they’ve hung on to this!’

He took a grubby handkerchief from under his pillow, wrapped it round two of the coins, and put the small bundle back under his pillow. He held out the third coin for his wife.

‘Get me half a dozen bottles of gin, Madge. And you can keep the change.’

Madge took the coin firmly. ‘One bottle will do for you, my lad. And the change will pay off some of the back rent.’ She nodded at the pillow. ‘I’ll have the rest of it later.’ She moved towards the door.

‘D’you mind if we stay and have a word with your husband, Mrs Scully?’ asked Steele, looking round for a chair. There was a rickety upright one in the corner. Mason fetched it for him, and then perched himself uneasily on the end of the bed.

‘Please yourself,’ said Madge. ‘You’ll not get much out of him. I never do. At least, not much that makes sense.’ And with that she left the room.

The conversation with Scully mainly confirmed what they’d already heard from Clare Austin and Charles Challis. Scully’s voice was feeble, and his words sparse as he reluctantly answered questions about his time working for Meredith Austin; indeed, only the sight of another sovereign glinting in Steele’s hand induced him to do so at all.

He admitted that he hated Austin, and said the theft charge was a bloody lie, trumped up as an excuse to get rid of him. The real reason he had to go, said Scully, was that he wouldn’t kow-tow to Austin all the time, as the tyrant expected. But Scully showed no passion for revenge. Again, when asked about Clare Austin, his response was muted. She was ‘all right’, he said, ‘the best of the bunch’. Briefly, he seemed about to say more, but either from weariness or inhibition his voice trailed off.