Terror by Gaslight (6 page)

Steele stared at the young woman. ‘For her safety? You put it as strongly as that?’

‘I do. I think my father is bent on driving her mad.’

As the detectives digested these remarkable words, Clare seemed to make a decision. There was new frankness and urgency in her voice. ‘Major, I thank heaven that you gentlemen have come into our lives. I beg your help in saving her. Please protect us both from our father!’

Steele spoke calmly. ‘Our help you shall certainly have when needed, Miss Austin. But it’s hard to see how we can act against your father at present. Putting a dead hare in a cat’s basket is wicked but it is not an illegal act. Unless he breaks the law there is little we can do. Is there anything more you can tell us?’

‘Yes. I was too restrained in answering your questions earlier. This latest atrocity has convinced me I must speak out.’

‘Please do. What you say will be treated as confidential.’

‘I believe our father’s cruelty to Harriet has some financial
motive. I do not understand business but my instinct tells me so. I think he may be planning to steal her inheritance. Or there may already have been some improper use of funds. Such things would be against the law, surely. Is it possible you could look into that aspect? As an act of kindness. I cannot pay any fees.’

‘You need not worry about fees, we have our own reasons for probing your father’s affairs. We can assist each other, Miss Austin. It’s difficult to pursue our inquiries when we are barred from this house. Will you continue to admit us at times when your father is absent?’

‘I can do better than that.’ As she spoke, Clare went to the mantelpiece, removed the lid from a small pewter pot, and took out a key. ‘This is a spare key to that garden door. Please take it. But have a copy made and put this back in place before it’s missed.’

‘Thank you. I can return it at once, if you have water and a bar of soap available.’

‘Soap and water? Well, there is a washbasin in the conservatory there.’ She was pointing to a door at the end of the room. ‘But I don’t understand.’

Steele took the key and went to the door. ‘Mr Mason will explain while I do the job,’ he said. He opened the door and disappeared into the conservatory.

Mason welcomed the chance of some cheerful chat. ‘A little trick we have learned from the criminal fraternity, Miss Austin. You soften the soap with water, and then press the key into it. If you take the key out gently, it will leave an exact impression. We know one or two craftsmen who can use that to produce a perfect replica.’

‘Oh. Is that legal?’

‘Er … not entirely. But if it’s done in a good cause …’ Mason smiled. ‘Say no more.’ He now broached a new subject. As the medical half of the team, he felt it was his province.
‘We were surprised that your sister is prescribed strong sedatives. Is Dr Frankel an experienced physician?’

‘I doubt it. He doesn’t seem to do general practice. His interest is in research, we’re told.’

‘Yet he’s your family doctor!’

‘That’s because he’s my father’s crony, as I told you. Since Dr Frankel moved in last year, they’ve been as thick as thieves. They go together to their club every Sunday night. To play whist, I think.’

Steele returned from the conservatory, using a small towel to dry his hands, the key, and the bar of soap. ‘Thank you, Miss Austin.’ He handed Clare the key, then wrapped the soap in a piece of paper from the wastepaper basket and put it in his pocket. ‘I hope this soap won’t be missed.’

‘I shall replace it with a new bar. I know where Mrs Butters keeps them.’

‘I think that would be wise,’ said Steele. ‘We’ll have a duplicate key by tomorrow. And, speaking of keys, it might help us uncover your father’s activities if I could unlock these desk drawers. Also that bureau over there.’

‘I can assist you with the desk,’ said Clare. She replaced the door key and extracted a small key from the same pot. ‘But I cannot help you with the bureau. I’ve never seen it opened, and I’ve no idea where the key is kept.’ She held out the desk key for Steele, but he declined.

‘I won’t take that now, Miss Austin. I have a lot more questions to ask while I’m with you. If you’ll kindly replace it in the pot, I’ll know where to find it when I need it.’

Clare returned the little key to the pot, and turned to face the detectives. ‘What more can I tell you, gentlemen?’

At that moment the hall door flew open and in rushed Mrs Butters, in a state of great alarm.

‘Miss Austin, Miss Austin!’ she cried. ‘The master’s back!’

Clare was visibly shaken. ‘What? He’s come home?’

‘And he told me not to let these gentlemen in! What are we to do?’

Mason glanced at the garden door. ‘Should we make a dash for it?’

‘No,’ said Steele. He shut the hall door as they heard the front door open and close beyond. ‘We could scarcely get away unseen. And if Austin glimpsed us fleeing, our friends here would be in worse trouble.’

Mrs Butters was gibbering. ‘What can we say? What can we do?’

‘Calm yourselves, ladies,’ said Steele. ‘I shall deal with this situation.’

‘But he has such a temper, sir! You haven’t seen him in one of his rages!’

‘No,’ said Steele. ‘It should be an interesting sight.’

From the hall came the sound of a cupboard door opening and closing.

‘Oh dear.’ Clare spoke evenly, her self-control now restored. ‘He has gone to the hall cupboard. That’s where he keeps his gun.’

‘A gun?’ said Steele. ‘Even more interesting.’

Then the hall door was flung open, and Meredith Austin entered, incandescent with rage, and carrying a shotgun.

‘You blackguards!’ he roared. ‘You have invaded my house again! You have flouted my orders!’

Steele remained cool. ‘You cannot be surprised to see us, sir.’ He indicated the shotgun. ‘You have come prepared.’

Now Austin’s voice was steely. ‘I received a message from my neighbour, Dr Frankel. He saw you both skulking back here. And you treacherous women let them in! Against my instructions!’

‘These good ladies had no option, sir. I had left a valuable silver pencil here.’

‘Ha!’ said Austin. ‘And it has taken you over an hour to
find it! Do not waste time dissembling! You two scoundrels came back to pry, and I will not have it!’ He pointed the gun at Steele. ‘Leave my house at once, both of you! Or you will be sorry!’

Mason intervened. ‘Have you got a licence for that gun?’

‘Yes, I have. Though it is none of your business, I am licensed to shoot game on the Heath. Also vermin, in which category I include unwelcome intruders!’

‘I don’t think a court would share that view,’ said Steele.

‘A householder is entitled to defend his property.’

‘He is not entitled to harm visitors calling on lawful business. However, we shall not stay to bandy words; we have work to do.’

‘Then go and do it, by God, and cease to pester me!’

Steele moved towards the garden door. ‘Time to leave, I think, Mason. Next time we call, perhaps we should bring our friend from Scotland Yard with us.’

Austin was not intimidated. ‘Then make sure he brings a warrant with him, or he will fare no better.’

‘Do not trouble to show us out, Mrs Butters. We can leave by this door.’ Steele inclined his head to the women. ‘Good day to you, ladies. We apologize for barging in. Mr Austin must understand that you could not prevent us.’

The two men went to the garden door and Steele opened it. As Mason passed Austin, he grasped the barrel of the gun and swung it up to point at the ceiling. ‘If you’re going to wave that thing about, you should put on the safety catch,’ he advised. ‘Otherwise you might shoot yourself in the foot.’

‘Get out!’ thundered Austin. ‘Go now! Get out!’

Steele and Mason did so. Austin slammed the door behind them, and turned to face the trembling housekeeper and the stoical Clare. He was shaking with anger, and almost at a loss for words.

Clare spoke first. ‘I’m sorry you seem distressed, Father.
Please calm yourself. Dr Frankel has warned you against excessive tension.’

‘He’d have done better to warn me against meddling troublemakers and disobedient women! I strictly forbade you to admit those men, Mrs Butters, and you have chosen to defy me!’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ pleaded Mrs Butters. ‘It was the silver pencil.’

‘Silence!’ Austin shouted. ‘Do not insult me with that absurd pretext! I told you not to let them in, and within an hour you had done so!’

Clare’s voice was firm. ‘You must blame me. I told Mrs Butters to open the door to them.’

Austin stared at his daughter. ‘Oh, you did, did you? By thunder, I shall deal with you presently, madam!’ He turned back to Mrs Butters. ‘Does this young person pay your wages, woman?’

‘No, sir,’ mumbled the housekeeper.

‘“No, sir” indeed! I provide your wages and your home! So you will take your orders only from me, and not from junior members of my household. Do you understand?’

Mrs Butters affirmed that she did.

‘Very well,’ Austin continued. ‘That’s for the future. As to the past, you have disobeyed my direct orders. You will forfeit two weeks’ wages.’

‘Oh no, sir!’ begged the woman. ‘Not two weeks, please!’

‘Very well,’ said Austin, enjoying the moment. ‘Three weeks. Now leave the room and go about your work, before you lose your job altogether.’

‘Yes, sir,’ sobbed Mrs Butters. ‘As you say, sir.’

The dejected servant left, and Austin spent a moment closing the door behind her. Then he moved quietly, almost imperceptibly, to the other two doors, before rounding on his daughter.

‘So, you wretched girl! You admit to instigating this outrage!’

‘Yes, if that is how you describe an act of common courtesy.’

‘Courtesy? Courtesy?! Your first duty of courtesy, my girl, is to obey your father! That is your duty, and that is what you have wilfully failed to do!’

‘I merely helped a visitor retrieve his lost property.’

‘Poppycock! You brought enemies into my house, to spy on me. You have betrayed and dishonoured me, and you must be punished. You will learn that I do not tolerate disloyalty!’

Clare was quietly defiant. ‘You are welcome to fine me. The pittance you allow me is so small its absence will scarcely be noticed.’

‘For your shameful behaviour, madam, a fine will not suffice. A more severe penalty is appropriate.’

Austin went to the bureau and took a key from his waistcoat pocket. ‘It is fortunate that I never got rid of the horsewhip!’

Now Clare was very afraid, and her hand went automatically to the scar on her face. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘No!’ But she still disdained to use the word ‘please’.

It would have made no difference. Austin took the whip from the drawer and watched his daughter rush to the three doors and try each in turn. But her father had locked them all.

A moment later, Clare’s screams were heard throughout the house. Indeed, they reached the house next door.

Dr Frankel looked up from his work and smiled.

C
EDRIC
J
AMIESON WAS
indeed moving up in the world, as Steele had observed. Abandoning the one-room office in Stepney, he had installed himself in Chancery Lane, the heartland of London’s legal profession. But the advance had been limited: his new premises were not palatial nor were they at the better end of the road.

As Steele and Mason approached the street number on Jamieson’s change-of-address card, they found themselves looking at Dolly’s Dairy, from which customers were emerging with jugs of fresh milk. Several churns stood outside on the pavement and through the shop window a young woman in a white hat and striped apron could be seen patting slabs of butter into shape with two small wooden bats.

Next to the long window, at the other end from the shop entrance, was a street door beside which cards in a small frame identified the occupants of the upper areas. The first floor was ascribed to ‘C.R. Jamieson, Solicitor’, the second to ‘Jas. Hoskins, Fruit Importer’ and the third to ‘Miss Lamour, Personal Services’.

The street door was unlocked. The two men entered and climbed a steep flight of narrow wooden stairs. At the first landing the staircase twisted round on its way to the higher regions. But the detectives had reached their destination,
being in no need of imported fruit or wild oats at that time.

The door ahead of them amplified the information displayed downstairs. Here the lawyer was described as ‘Cedric R. Jamieson. Solicitor and Commissioner for Oaths’. This door also was unlocked. Steele opened it and the pair went in.

They were impressed to find that Jamieson now had an outer office, with a couple of chairs and framed certificates on the walls. There was also a desk, at which sat a spotty youth perusing a comic paper, his lips moving as he wrestled with occasional clusters of words.

He looked up at the new arrivals and said, ‘Yeah?’

‘We’ve called to see Mr Jamieson,’ said Steele, pleasantly.

‘You got an appointment?’

‘No. We thought we’d give him a nice surprise.’

‘Mr Jamieson never sees no one without an appointment,’ said the youth.

‘I think you’ll find he’s about to make an exception,’ said Steele, handing the youth his card. ‘Tell him Major Steele and Mr Mason would like a word with him. Say some new facts have emerged about the Slattery case.’

Steele’s manner made the youth disinclined to argue. He took the card and went into an inner room, closing the door behind him. For a short while, indistinct male voices could be heard, one raised in anger. The detectives passed the time studying Jamieson’s certificates. These all bore spectacular red seals, but came from American universities of which neither man had heard.

Jamieson had first come to the detectives’ attention as an East End lawyer, defending local villains on routine charges. He was known for exploiting legal loopholes to the limit and sometimes, they felt, rather beyond.

After he’d progressed to more salubrious areas of the law, Jamieson had crossed their paths again in the notorious case
of Edwin Slattery. Slattery had tried to execute a series of elaborate share-dealing frauds, using a network of false proxies and non-existent companies. Steele and Mason, working for a firm of stockbrokers, had been the first to uncover wrongdoing, before the police took over the investigation. Slattery and an assistant had gone to jail.

They had employed a number of lawyers in weaving the dense web of legal complexities which were intended to hide their criminal activities. One solicitor, Silas Crutchley, had been struck off by the Law Society. And suspicions remained that others had been involved in misconduct.

Jamieson had been a minor player, with no firm evidence against him. Steele had always believed that a deep and thorough probe would reveal some misdeeds but justice had been done, investors had been reimbursed, and the detectives had more urgent work on their hands, protecting a prominent politician from assassination.

So the matter lay dormant. But Steele and Mason and Jamieson all knew there were dark secrets to be unearthed if anyone had the incentive to dig.

Just as the certificates on the wall were starting to lose their entertainment value, the spotty youth returned and said, ‘Mr Jamieson will see you in five minutes. He has an important job to finish.’

‘Ah. Perhaps we could go in and help him,’ said Steele, already moving briskly towards the inner door. ‘Many hands make light work.’

The youth seemed about to protest but before he could find the words Steele and Mason were through the door and into the lawyer’s inner sanctum.

Cedric Jamieson, somewhat agitated, was trying to secrete a whisky bottle in a desk drawer into which he’d just crammed a bulky file that he must have thought rather sensitive. The drawer wouldn’t close, and the neck of the bottle
protruded. The Commissioner for Oaths was uttering several very coarse ones.

Steele was reassuring. ‘Don’t bother to get drinks out, Cedric. We’re here on business.’

Jamieson regained his composure, laid the bottle on the floor beneath his desk, closed the drawer and managed a smile that was rancid enough to curdle the milk downstairs. ‘Major Steele!’ he cried. ‘And Mr Mason! Good to see you!’ He rose and extended a hand.

Mason did the job of shaking it so his senior didn’t have to. Steele just grinned affably at the lawyer and said, ‘We’d like a little co-operation from you, Cedric.’

Jamieson enthused. ‘Of course, Major, I’m always ready to help, you know that.’ He cleared his throat, and then spoke a little nervously. ‘Arthur said it was something to do with the Slattery case.’

‘That was just to get your attention, old chap.’ Steele was still sounding genial. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that at present we have no plans to delve deeper into the Slattery affair. Unless new circumstances arise, of course.’

The solicitor concealed his relief effectively and instead registered mild puzzlement. ‘I’m not sure why you feel the Slattery case is of special concern to me, Major. However, if you tell me the actual purpose of your visit, I’ll do my best to assist you.’

‘We’re interested in the affairs of one of your clients. Mr Meredith Austin of Highgate Road, Hampstead. We need to know about various transactions.’

‘Major Steele,’ said Jamieson sternly. ‘You know I can’t discuss a client’s business with a third party. Unless I have the client’s express permission, of course. Has Mr Austin given his consent to this approach?’

‘We’ve had several meaningful discussions with Mr Austin,’ said Steele. ‘He’s aware of our interest.’

‘But has he given you written authority to make these inquiries?’

‘Now I come to think of it,’ Steele conceded, ‘I’m not sure that he has. In fact, I think it might be best if none of us mentioned them to him.’

Jamieson was shocked. ‘This is most irregular. In the circumstances, I don’t see how I can help you.’

‘Well, let me make a suggestion,’ said Steele. ‘That cabinet must contain clients’ files, surely? Mr Austin’s will be in the top drawer, marked “A to C”, I daresay.’ He turned to Mason. ‘Jack, perhaps you could find it for Mr Jamieson.’

‘Shall be done,’ said his burly assistant, moving swiftly into action.

Jamieson objected vociferously. ‘This is outrageous! Come away from there! I shall have to call the police!’ But he thought it wise not to intervene physically, and Mason quickly took out Austin’s file and laid it on the desk.

‘Here we are, sir,’ he said. ‘Right at the front. Very orderly system Mr Jamieson has. I didn’t have to disturb anything.’

‘Very good,’ said Steele. ‘Now you have the file in front of you, Cedric, it should be easy for you to help us. We’ll ask questions and you can look up the answers.’

‘That’s out of the question,’ the lawyer protested. ‘Completely unethical.’

Steele smiled. ‘And of course you would never do anything unethical, would you? Not like poor old Silas Crutchley in the Slattery case. He got struck off by the Law Society, didn’t he?’

Jamieson ran his tongue over dry lips, and said nothing.

‘Of course,’ Steele continued, ‘if our way is blocked on this Austin inquiry, we’ll have time on our hands. We could take another look at the Slattery business after all.’ He turned to Mason. ‘What d’you think, Jack?’

‘Certainly, sir. I’ve felt all along we should go into that more thoroughly.’

The lawyer sighed. ‘Be reasonable, Major. The fact is, I cannot supply you with information about clients. I dare not.’

Steele considered the situation and then offered his solution. ‘All right, Cedric, I see your problem. You can’t answer our questions. We’ll have to acquire the information we need without your knowledge.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘If you leave this office for half an hour, you won’t be responsible for what goes on here, will you? Why don’t you go and help Arthur with his reading? He seems to have difficulty with the longer words. Or perhaps Miss Lamour would welcome a visit. Does she offer special rates for neighbours?’

Jamieson looked at Steele and then at Mason. Both faces were smiling but quite relentless. Mason tilted his head briefly towards the office door.

Without another word, Jamieson gave a resigned shrug and left the office, closing the door behind him.

Steele sat down at the desk and opened the Austin file. Mason took out his pocket notebook.

It had turned colder overnight, and now the afternoon was as bleak as a judge’s smile.

Some thin November sunshine was totally outgunned by a freezing east wind, not spectacularly fierce but very cold. This wind was apparently blowing all the way from Siberia, crossing the North Sea and the flat plains of East Anglia, and arriving undiminished on Hampstead Heath, eager to chill new victims.

Harriet Austin still looked pale but was largely recovered from the crisis of four days ago. She was glad of her overcoat, with the scarf and the hood brought up over her head. She was grateful, too, for the leather gloves, lined with warm fleece, and much more comforting than any gloves she had worn in the past. She’d found this expensive pair in the
attic. They’d been tucked away in a chest of drawers, which contained some of her mother’s belongings Meredith Austin had failed to burn or throw away. These items had survived because his hatred had been surpassed by his reluctance to part with anything that might be worth money.

The gloves were of good quality, soft and supple, and Harriet had hoped she could carry out her mission without removing them. But then she found she couldn’t. Although the bark of the trees was firm and fairly soft, the drawing pins were too small and fiddly for gloved fingers, and two pins had fallen to the ground. As she took off a glove to grope for them in the grass, she relaxed her grip on the leaflets and one of them detached itself from the rest, to go skittling away in an eddy of wind.

Harriet had spent hours composing the text of her leaflet, and many more making a dozen copies by hand. She had felt that twelve was the minimum required, and she still thought so. Besides, she hated litter. So she stuffed the rest of the bunch into her overcoat pocket and set off in pursuit of the miscreant.

Harriet was slim and light but not much accustomed to physical exercise, and the leaflet was well airborne. It seemed an unequal chase.

But then the leaflet was blown against the side of a prickly bush, becoming briefly trapped. And before it could free itself and resume its flight, a figure emerged from a clump of trees and intervened.

It was a boy who had been using a knife to whittle a stick into a sharp spike. Now he thrust the knife and the spike into the belt of his trousers and moved swiftly to retrieve the paper.

The rescuer was a lad of about fourteen years, with tousled fair hair and a grubby face. His face and body were thin and his frame was wiry. He wore long scruffy trousers,
with a tear at the right knee and, above them, a coarse jerkin over some sort of woollen garment.

He grabbed the paper and studied it keenly for a few moments. Then he looked at Harriet.

‘This yours, miss?’ he asked. His voice was hoarse and had already broken.

‘Yes,’ she said nervously, uncertain whether or not to advance and take the leaflet from him. It was broad daylight and there were other people in sight, including a distant police constable on patrol. But the boy looked wild, almost feral, and he had that knife in his belt.

So she stayed where she was and simply said, ‘Thank you for catching it for me.’

The boy showed no sign of wanting to part with the leaflet. He continued to peer at it closely, and eventually managed to master one of the words near the top.

‘Woss this about a cat?’ His delivery was slightly aggressive. But there was a naive pride in his words that was somehow touching. ‘I can read, you know. My mate taught me,’ he went on. ‘Before he had to go away.’

‘My cat’s disappeared,’ Harriet explained. ‘I think she may be lost on the Heath. I’m offering a reward to anyone who finds her.’

The boy’s interest was aroused. ‘Woss this cat look like?’

‘She’s small and brown, not much more than a kitten. She’s called Ella, her name’s on her collar. There’s more about her in the leaflet.’

The boy sniffed. ‘Yeah. Well, I don’t read no more than I have to. My mate said too much reading’s bad for your eyes.’ He got quickly to the main point. ‘Woss the reward?’

‘I’ll give a guinea to anyone who brings Ella safely back to me.’

‘A guinea? ’ow much is that?’

‘A guinea is one pound plus one shilling.’

The boy whistled in amazement. ‘Gor! More than a quid! When I bring home a cat to my gaffer, he just give me tuppence!’

Harriet was pleasantly surprised. ‘Your father runs a refuge for lost cats?’

The boy gave a brief, mirthless laugh. ‘Nah! He ain’t my father. And the cats don’t have to be lost. Just any old cat I can lay my hands on. Or a rabbit. Or a squirrel, if I can ever catch one. See, he just likes something he can cut up.’

The smile froze on the young woman’s face.

‘He cuts them up?’

‘Yeah. Research, he calls it. I think he just enjoys it.’