Terror by Gaslight (9 page)

‘Very good, miss,’ said the housekeeper. She addressed the major with a mixture of respect and nervousness. ‘How do you take your tea, sir?’

‘Strong, please. No milk or sugar.’

As the woman served him, Steele glanced at the ornamental daggers on the wall. Both were now spotlessly clean and shining, and perfectly aligned.

Mrs Butters turned to Mason. ‘What about you, sir?’

‘Milk and sugar for me, please,’ said Mason. And then, assessing the size of the cups, he added, ‘Two lumps, please.’

‘Help yourselves to biscuits, gentlemen,’ said Harriet, rising to her feet. ‘And now I’ll ask you to excuse me. I have been out on the Heath this afternoon. I feel in need of a rest.’

‘Very wise,’ said Steele. ‘Thank you for your co-operation.’

The young woman’s response was polite but firm; she was conscious of the housekeeper’s presence. ‘I have not co-operated, Major. Please remember that, officially, I have no knowledge of your visit. You have come to see my sister.’

Steele made a slight bow. ‘Of course, Miss Austin. We thank you nevertheless.’

Harriet moved to the door and Mason opened it for her. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and was gone. Mason closed the door behind her and then returned to his teacup. He took a Bourbon biscuit.

Major Steele turned a warm smile on the hesitant housekeeper. ‘An excellent cup of tea,’ he remarked.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Clearly you always warm the pot.’

‘That I do, sir,’ said the housekeeper, with some pride. ‘And I take the pot to the kettle, not the kettle to the pot.’

‘Ah. A commendable policy,’ purred the major, before turning to more serious matters. ‘Mrs Butters, I have heard from Miss Clare that your master punished you for letting us in the other day.’

‘He did, sir, and no mistake. Three weeks’ wages he docked me! And me saving for a winter coat. Now I’ll be too late for the sales.’

Steele produced some coins from his waistcoat pocket. ‘I should not wish to be the cause of that disaster, Mrs Butters. Perhaps you would be good enough to accept some compensation.’ He held out the coins, and Mrs Butters took them with a gasp.

‘Oh! Sir! Three sovereigns! That’s far more than I lost, sir!’

‘But I’ve no doubt you also suffered some unpleasantness. And, furthermore, I hope you may be able to give us some slight assistance from time to time in the future.’

This aroused considerable alarm. ‘Oh! I don’t know about that, sir. I don’t know if I dare.’

‘You will not be put in peril again, never fear. I merely ask that if you notice anything unusual in this house, or indeed in the neighbourhood, you will tell us on one of our visits.’ Steele took further coins from his pocket, inspected them, and put them back again. ‘There are more sovereigns where those came from.’

Mrs Butters lost some of her hesitancy. ‘Well, sir … if I could be sure the master would never hear of it …’

‘You have my word on that.’

‘Well … as it happens, I did come across something odd the other day. I was already wondering if I should tell you about it.’

‘Yes, Mrs Butters, you should. It will be kept entirely confidential.’

‘Well, sir … of course, it may not be of any importance …’

‘Let me be the judge of that. Please tell us what you came across.’

‘Well, sir …’

As Mrs Butters sought the right words, the door opened and Clare came in, carrying a large envelope and a small book.

‘Ah, Major Steele,’ she said, in a businesslike manner. ‘And Mr Mason. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to receive you.’

‘Don’t worry, Miss Austin. We have been well looked after.’

‘I’ve found the souvenirs you wanted.’ She handed the items to Steele. ‘The newspaper reports are in this envelope. And here is my mother’s diary for the last year of her life.’

‘Thank you, Miss Austin. We shall guard these most
carefully, and return them as soon as possible.’

Clare turned to the housekeeper. ‘Thank you, Mrs Butters. I’ll take charge of the tea now.’

‘Very good, miss,’ said the housekeeper, turning to go.

Steele held up a hand. ‘One moment, please. Mrs Butters has something to tell us.’

‘Oh, never mind that now, sir. That can wait for another time. I must go and start on the vegetables for dinner.’ She was on the move before Steele could protest further. Clare took up the conversation as the door closed behind her.

‘The diary is mainly full of trivia, I’m afraid, and there are several gaps. But there may be something of interest.’

‘Anything that sheds light on events of that time will be useful,’ said Steele. ‘The boating accident is one of our main lines of inquiry.’

‘Have you any news for me, Major?’

‘Yes, I think we have. We asked our contact at Scotland Yard to look at police records relating to the incident. His report is sad but interesting.’

Mason was concerned. ‘Maybe you should sit down, Miss Austin.’

‘Yes … yes. Perhaps we should all be seated. What have you learned, Major?’

‘The police were extremely concerned about your mother’s death. But the boat was in a secluded reach of the Thames, and there seemed to be no witnesses.’

‘That much I learned from the inquest report.’

‘Your father testified that your mother insisted on attempting to punt. He said she unbalanced and fell overboard when she took the pole from him. Strangely, she didn’t try to save herself by clinging to the side of the punt. Mr Austin claimed that was because the current took the boat away from her. He couldn’t steer it back because the pole had fallen in and drifted away.’

Clare spoke contemptuously. ‘An extraordinary chain of circumstances.’

Steele continued his account. ‘Your father said he didn’t dive in after her because he couldn’t swim. The police were unable to disprove that.’

‘Alas, neither can I,’ said Clare. ‘The question has never arisen.’

‘We hope your sister may elicit that information. If so, she will pass it on to you to give to us.’

Clare raised her eyebrows. ‘Harriet is willing to help?’

‘In that one small way only. We must not ask for more.’ Steele concluded his narrative. ‘Your father said he thought it better to stay on the punt and shout for help. Unfortunately, by the time that arrived it was too late.’

There was a pause, while Clare sadly considered what she’d just been told. Then she observed, ‘It doesn’t seem to have been a very thorough investigation.’

‘Our contact, Chief Inspector Willoughby, was not involved at the time, of course. He has been consulting an older colleague. It appears that the police considered bringing a charge of culpable homicide against your father. But it was felt at the time that there was insufficient evidence to pursue it.’

Clare sighed. ‘A pity. And was that the end of the matter, as far as the police were concerned?’

‘It was, Miss Austin. But no longer. Inspector Willoughby is having the case reopened at our request. And it now appears there may have been a witness after all.’

Clare was animated. ‘A witness? Why did that person not come forward at the time?’

‘For the understandable reason that he might have been prosecuted himself. My colleague has the details.’

Mason consulted his notebook. ‘It seems that a local character named Dan Croucher habitually fished on that
stretch of river without a licence. Poaching, in fact. He was seen there early on the day in question. After the accident he made himself scarce for a while. But it’s thought he’s still alive and the police will now try to trace him.’ He closed his notebook. ‘And that is how things stand at present.’

Clare sighed. ‘Well … it seems my thoughts may be confirmed. Have you been able to discover anything about my father’s business affairs?’

‘We have,’ Steele responded. ‘And, there again, it seems your suspicions may be justified. We were fortunate in finding that your father’s solicitor is one Cedric Jamieson, who is well known to us. A man of very few scruples.’

‘About the most devious rogue in the legal profession,’ said Mason, with relish.

‘Which is a remarkable accolade, considering the competition,’ Steele observed.

‘As slippery as a barrel of eels,’ Mason added, apparently feeling the denigration needed more emphasis.

‘And this is my father’s solicitor? Well, I cannot say I’m surprised.’

‘However,’ said Steele, ‘in present circumstances, Mr Jamieson’s dubious record has worked in our favour. By reminding him that we know certain things to his discredit we persuaded him to assist us. We now know a great deal about Meredith Austin’s affairs.’

‘Well done, gentlemen. Please tell me.’

‘Your mother’s will was as you surmised. Her money went to your father, and was indeed used to found his business. And it was a condition of the will that he provide you with a home and an income until you marry.’

‘Which is why he has always regarded me as a burden.’ Clare’s voice was bitter.

‘His second wife was more cautious. On absconding, she put a large sum in trust for her daughter. Mr Austin must
use it for Harriet’s benefit only. When she marries, or reaches the age of twenty-one, the money becomes hers.’

‘Which is why the wretched man drives away her suitors.’

‘A plausible theory, but not one that can be proved, of course.’

‘No doubt he would retain the money if Harriet died, or were certified insane?’

‘That would be the expected outcome, yes. But neither of those tragedies is likely, I think.’

‘You would not think that, if you knew my father as I do.’

‘Let us not get carried away, Miss Austin. Thus far, we’ve uncovered no evidence of illegality. However, Mr Mason and I have both come to distrust the man as much as you do.’

‘I’m glad to hear that, Major. Is there anything to be done about the situation?’

‘We are still checking papers to see if he’s used trust money for his own ends. And our legal adviser is seeing if the trust can be broken, and the money passed straight to Harriet.’

‘Alas,’ said Clare, ‘I fear she would scarcely know what to do with it.’

‘That’s a bridge we can cross when we come to it. We also have an expert looking at Mr Austin’s business dealings. There may be things to uncover there.’

‘You are very thorough, Major. We are lucky to have you acting on our behalf.’

‘Thank you, Miss Austin. At the risk of sounding pompous, I must say that Mr Mason and I both have a hatred of villainy and a compulsion to try and thwart wickedness whenever we suspect it.’

‘Also,’ said Mason, slightly embarrassed, ‘we are being well paid to catch the Heath Maniac.’

‘Indeed,’ said Steele. ‘And we must now turn our attention to the matter that brought us here in the first place.’

‘Of course,’ said Clare. ‘I have told you I should like to help in any way I can. Is there any progress in that area?’

‘The police have recruited an expert from the United States. A … what does he call himself?’ He turned to Mason.

‘A criminologist.’

‘Ah yes. Our American friends are always surprising us with new ologies. Apparently, this Professor Kane helped to catch the Chicago Axe Murderer. When there’s a spate of killings, he claims he can build up a picture of the assassin. A brilliant man, according to Scotland Yard.’

‘Has he produced a result?’

‘No, he hasn’t arrived yet. It seems he missed his boat in New York. In the meantime we get on with our more down-to-earth inquiries. We think we may have a lead to Luke Scully.’

As before, Steele thought he detected a slight nervous reaction in the young woman at the mention of this man. But it was gone in an instant. ‘Scully?’ said Clare. ‘Oh yes, our former gardener. You were asking me about him.’

‘We’re very interested in Scully.’

‘Well, you’ll be pleased to hear I’ve remembered something else about him. I believe at one time he’d been on the stage.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Steele triumphantly. ‘Just so! And that is our lead. Tell Miss Austin, Jack.’

‘I’ve been asking round the alehouses. And there’s a barman at the Flask who recalls Scully as part of a double act. On the halls. Charlie Challis and Luke Scully.’

‘We’ve discovered that Charlie Challis is still working,’ said Steele. ‘We’re hoping he may have kept in touch with his old partner.’

‘Can you find this man Challis?’

‘Very easily. He’s appearing this week at the Camden Alhambra. We shall go there tonight, to see if he can help us.’

I
T WAS
A
lively night at the Camden Alhambra. The place was not quite so full as it would be on Saturday, but the numbers were good for midweek.

Talbot O’Reilly, the Irish tenor, was past the peak of his career, but still had a following, especially in north-west London. His name at the top of the bill ensured steady business.

When Steele and Mason entered, only a few of the red plush seats facing the stage were vacant, and the bar, which ran down one side of the hall, was noisy and crowded with customers. Most of these people would have only one eye on the stage until O’Reilly came on.

The two men took seats in the fifth row, at the end furthest from the drinkers. Steele lit a small cigar; Mason rolled a cheap cigarette.

Nell Waters, billed as the Cockney Princess, was nearing the end of her act, which consisted of four of the songs that had almost made her famous, linked by a well-judged flow of cheeky chat. She was just finishing her third ditty, ‘You’d Better Put It Away Now, George’, with its telling second line, ‘Mother will soon be home.’ The song concluded, amid cheers and raucous laughter, with the revelation that the contentious item was the pipe that George was smoking.

Nell had a melodious voice, not quite as good as it had been a thousand gins ago, but still appealing. It served her well in her comedy songs but it was beginning to be a mistake to end her act with a sentimental ballad.

On this occasion, ‘He’ll Always Be There In My Heart’ didn’t go well. With no bawdy lines to enjoy, and the sound of a less-than-wonderful voice, the drinkers returned to their glasses and signs of restlessness began in the stalls. There were a few jeers, and the hubbub of conversation began to drown the singer.

As the noise worsened, the need for fair play was aroused in at least one spectator and a powerful voice from the bar bellowed, ‘Give the old cow a chance!’

So fierce was this command that the hubbub was hushed. Then the orchestra ground to a halt as Nell Waters advanced, with a sweet smile and a raised hand.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m glad there’s at least one gentleman in the house.’ After that, she murmured to the conductor to cut to the last verse; the orchestra struck up again and the Cockney Princess sang her way through to the end amid cheers and applause. There was almost an ovation as the curtains closed and Nell stepped out through the middle to take a bow. In fact, she took several bows, encouraged by gentlemen in the audience who appreciated the low-cut gown she was wearing.

Over the applause, the orchestra did a brisk reprise of one of her songs as a bridge to the next act. Steele puffed his cigar and reflected, ‘It makes you proud to be British, doesn’t it? They’ll forgive you anything if you make them laugh.’

The Camden Alhambra had taken up the new trend of dispensing with the traditional chairman. Here, acts followed each other without verbal introduction. So once the applause for Nell Waters had stopped, the orchestra abruptly ended the reprise of her song and set off in a totally different musical
style, with an onslaught of dramatic Cossack music.

This heralded the appearance of a speciality act, Vladimir and Olga. At first the stage was occupied only by Vladimir, a swarthy man with shiny black hair, a moustache, and a single golden earring. He set up a target at one side of the stage and then, against a low background of urgent Russian tunes, hurled knives at it from the opposite corner. All thudded into the bull’s-eye.

It looked easy. So, to make it more difficult for himself, the man retrieved the knives and threw them again, this time propelling them backwards over his shoulder. Next, still facing away from the target, he bent forward and threw the knives between his legs.

Only one failed to hit the bull’s-eye, the last knife, and that landed in the next circle. The man muttered a foreign oath, retrieved the miscreant, did a somersault and, as he completed it, threw the knife between his legs again. This time it hit the very centre of the target.

Then, to a crescendo of music, Vladimir took a bow, after which he signalled towards the wings for his partner to join him.

So far, audience reaction had been tolerant rather than enthusiastic. The man could throw knives, so what? This changed with the arrival of Olga, a voluptuous, large-eyed, black-haired beauty, in a white blouse and a long black skirt, slit up to her thigh. The act now had everyone’s full attention.

‘Bit of all right,’ said Mason.

‘Some Russian women can be very striking,’ Steele pronounced sagely, giving the impression of boundless experience of beautiful women throughout the world. ‘Note the fine cheekbones. Cossack blood, I daresay.’

Stagehands had removed the target and replaced it with a white upright board. Olga stood with her back tightly pressed
against this, clutching the sides with outstretched hands to keep herself still and steady.

Now most of the orchestra were silent; the only sound was a series of drum rolls, each building up to a climax, as Vladimir’s knives embedded themselves in the board around Olga’s rigid body. They landed symmetrically, the first within inches of her left shoulder, the next on the opposite side, then one by her left knee and one by her right. The final two knives landed either side of her waist, the last one obviously nicking something vital, as her skirt fell to the floor, revealing long shapely legs clad in black fishnet tights. This brought a roar of approval from the bar area.

Over the applause, Vladimir murmured a few words to Olga, apparently checking that she was ready for the act’s perilous climax. Bravely, she seemed to concur and Vladimir returned to his throwing position.

Now there were more drum rolls, accompanied by gasps from the audience as Vladimir threw his knives to make a circle round the girl’s head. The first thudded home to the right of her throat, the next by her right ear.

And then, as he worked his way down the left side, something went wrong. The fifth knife landed close to her left ear, but too close, it seemed. Olga let out a little cry and put a hand to the side of her head. Blood began to trickle down her neck.

There was an uproar of alarm from the audience. Drinkers put down their glasses and peered at the stage, eager to get their money’s worth. If the man could get it wrong once, next time he might do something worse. This was exciting stuff. They didn’t know, of course, that Olga’s hand had squeezed open the small sachet of pig’s blood hidden in her hair.

Vladimir rushed to his partner to check that she wasn’t seriously hurt. A few quiet words were exchanged. He seemed to be asking if he should go ahead with the last knife. With
a nervous nod of the head, she appeared to say yes, and Vladimir went back to his mark.

The tension was electric as he prepared to throw the final blade. This time he was slower and more cautious than before. But after ten seconds of suspense, during which the drum roll built up to a crescendo, Vladimir threw the knife and it landed safely, an inch away from Olga’s neck.

The audience’s relief was audible and their applause generous as the orchestra struck up more of their exciting Cossack music, the curtains swirled together, and Vladimir and Olga trotted out to take their bows, Olga holding a discreet handkerchief to her throat.

‘A dangerous business,’ Steele observed.

‘Very dangerous,’ said Mason. ‘Pity they’re too lazy to learn a comic song.’

‘Still, it gives us a clue to your Angel of Death.’

‘How so, guv’nor?’

‘You were wondering how the Heath Maniac’s victims had no chance to defend themselves. These people remind us that the knife could have been thrown.’

Mason stubbed out his cigarette in the little brass ashtray attached to the seat in front of him. ‘I suppose it could. But the Maniac would have to be as good as this Russian chap. And I don’t suppose this bloke is the Heath Maniac, or he wouldn’t be on stage showing everyone what he can do.’

By now, the Cossack music had been replaced by a rumbustious English music-hall tune, obviously associated with the next artiste, the man they’d come to see, Cheerful Charlie Challis.

Swiftly the curtains parted and there he was, ambling on to the stage and affecting a comic trip as he approached the centre. Behind him, the backcloth was painted to look like a brick wall, embellished with advertisements for local businesses.

Charlie was dressed in a bookmaker’s loud check suit, and he wore a brown bowler hat with a curly brim. He greeted the audience as old friends.

‘How do?’ he said. ‘How are yer? All right? You’re in luck tonight, I’m going to sing for you.’

This brought the expected groans and ironic cheers from the bar, none of them unfriendly.

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie, ‘I knew you’d be pleased. I’ve got a nice little song I’m going to render for you … render meaning to tear apart. Ladies and gentlemen, a little song, a little song entitled “If You’ve Nothing On Tonight, Mabel, I Think I’ll Come Round for a Bit”.’

There were more jocular moans from the bar but now they were mingled with genuine laughter.

Charlie pretended to hear objections from the front rows. ‘All right, lady, I won’t do that one. I won’t do that one, in case the vicar’s in. Instead, I’ll do one you all know. It’s published by Sanderson Music, and it’s called “She Taught Me Lots Of Things I Never Knew”. He nodded to the conductor. Thank you, Maestro.’

Then off he went into half a dozen verses, describing things girls had taught him, which all sounded as if they were going to be rude, but never quite were. He finished to good applause but as he went into his patter it seemed he still had critics among the drinkers.

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie. ‘Now I’ve got to tell you about my neighbour. My neighbour, he’s a funny bloke—’

A voice from the bar interrupted. ‘Why don’t you get off and get him on?’

Charlie’s response was quick. ‘You wouldn’t want him near you, mate. He does pest control for the council.’

Having earned a good laugh and a points victory, Charlie launched into his routine. ‘Yes, he’s a funny bloke, my neighbour. I saw him with his dog the other day, outside his front
door. And he was holding his dog’s tail! He was! He was holding the dog’s tail!

‘I said, “Why are you holding the dog’s tail?” He said, “My mother-in-law’s coming, and I don’t want her seeing any sign of welcome.”’

Once launched on the subject, Charlie did five minutes on mothers-in-law, before switching to wives, doctors and varicose veins. Then it was back to life in general. He finished on his current favourite joke.

‘This bloke at the pub, he drives me mad. He does, he drives me mad. Anything bad, he says, “Oh well, it could be worse.” “Terrible weather!” “Yeah. Still, it could be worse.” “But it’s been raining all day.” “Yeah, well, it could have been raining all week.”

‘I saw him last night, he said, “Have you heard about her at number eighteen?” I said, “What, Fast Annie?” He said, “Yeah. The one whose husband’s a commercial, away all week.”

‘I said, “What about her?” He said, “Big tragedy. Last week he came home Thursday instead of Friday, caught her with another man. He shot them both.”

‘I said, “That’s terrible!” He said, “Yeah. Still, it could have been worse.” I said, “He shot two people, how could that have been worse?” He said, “If he’d come home Wednesday, he’d have shot me.”’

Charlie liked to end his act with a straight, heart-warming song to demonstrate that as well as being a funny man he was also a lovable human being. ‘There’ll Never Be Another Like My Mum’ was always well received, and so it was tonight. He concluded to a good round of applause, which lasted while the curtains closed, the band went into his play-off music, and Charlie came out front to acknowledge his reception.

Mason looked at the next item on his list of acts. ‘The Parisian Sisters,’ he announced. ‘A Visit to the Ballet. I wouldn’t mind seeing that.’

‘Another time,’ said Steele, rising to his feet. ‘We need to catch Challis before he goes to the pub.’

In his dingy dressing room, Charlie Challis sat down heavily on his chair and exhaled lengthily. It was a moment before he remembered to breathe in again.

Once he’d done so, he found the energy to remove his coat, tie and collar, and finally, with a deep sigh of relief, his boots. Then he undid his shirt buttons, revealing a sweat-stained vest. On his dressing table stood two bottles of Guinness. Charlie opened one, put it to his lips, and took a long drink.

He reckoned he’d gone quite well tonight. Slipping his mate Jim ten bob to heckle from the bar had been money well spent.

There was a knock at the door.

Hastily, Charlie used his make-up towel to hide the second bottle of Guinness. Then he called out, ‘Who is it?’

The door opened and in came Gerald Timlin, manager of the Camden Alhambra, and a figure of authority to the likes of Charlie Challis. ‘It’s your manager,’ he said.

‘Evening, guv’nor,’ said Charlie, sitting up straight. ‘Went all right tonight, eh?’

‘Yes. All right,’ said Timlin. ‘They’ve heard that first song a bit too often. You need to give it a rest.’

‘But they love it,’ protested the comic.

‘Yes, Charlie, and you love the tip from your publishers. But never mind that now. There’s two gentlemen to see you.’

‘Gentlemen? To see me? There’s a novelty!’ Charlie gave a derisive laugh. ‘Listen, guv’nor, I’m tired. I don’t want to talk to no one just now. Unless it’s a rich widow, with a good figure and a nice little pub.’

‘You have to see these gentlemen. They’ve brought me a letter of introduction from J.G. Hurst.’

J.G. Hurst owned the chain of music halls that included
the Camden Alhambra, and was not a man to disoblige. He was a member of Henry Steele’s London club.

‘Oh well,’ said Charlie. ‘Bring ’em in.’ He swallowed the rest of his Guinness and did up his shirt buttons.

The manager ushered in Steele and Mason and, having studied Hurst’s letter again, performed the introductions. The room seemed too small for four large men.

‘Would you prefer to move to my office?’ Timlin offered.

‘No, thank you,’ said Steele. ‘I’m sure Mr Challis is a busy man. We shan’t take up much of his time. May we sit down?’