Authors: Norman Russell
‘Would you be willing to lend me these two photographs, Mr Palmer? They’d prove very useful to me.’
‘Lend them? You can have them! I still have the negatives, you see. But what’s that noise in the street?’
The cheerful sound of military music drifted up through the open window from Falcon Street. Mr Palmer leaned out, and peered up the road towards St Martin’s-le-Grand.
‘It’s a German band on the pavement, Mr Box,’ he said, ‘just on the turn into Colchester Mews. They’ve been playing to quite decent crowds these last few days, and they’ve collected a positive mountain of copper! People are sorry for them, I suppose, on account of the German ship that was sunk.’
‘Well, yes, Mr Palmer,’ said Box, preparing to take his leave, ‘but there’s nothing more fickle than a crowd of British bystanders. It’d only take one word from above, saying that the Russians were our dearest friends in the world, and your
kind-hearted
copper-throwers would cheerfully tear the German bandsmen to pieces. I’d like to see young Tom Slater now, if I may.’
Tom Slater looked up curiously as Box entered the room beyond the beaded curtain. The boy was sitting at a cluttered table, with a plate of buttered toast and a cup of tea in front of
him. His slender neck was encompassed by a shiny new starched collar, and he was wearing a smart Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers.
‘You’re Inspector Box, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘You caught the murderer of Sir John Courteline. Somehow, I thought you’d be taller than you are.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, young Slater,’ said Inspector Box, ‘but you’ll have to make do with me as I am. We can’t all be giants in this world.’
The boy took a quick bite from his piece of toast while Box extracted a notebook from the pocket of his overcoat. He licked the point of his blacklead, and looked expectantly at the boy. Young Tom anticipated his question.
‘Thomas Slater, aged fourteen. Number 7, Beaufort Lane, Monument.’
‘Good. Well done. Beaufort Lane, Monument. Now, Thomas Slater, I’m going to ask you a few questions. First of all, tell me how you came to be working for Mr Oldfield.’
‘Sir, I used to work for Mr Edison in Paul’s Walk. The legal stationers. When Mr Edison retired, he recommended me to Mr Oldfield. That was about a year ago.’
‘And did you like Mr Oldfield?’
‘Yes, sir. He was a very nice, friendly gentleman. Kind and considerate, he was, though some folk said he was a fusspot. I didn’t know what to do this morning. Him and I were both very punctual. I used to knock prompt at eight o’clock, and he’d open the door. Then I’d take the shutters down and we’d be open for business at half past.’
‘But not today?’
‘No, sir. I sat on the step for a while and then I went round the back. The door was … was ajar, so I went in, and up the stairs. And I found … I found….’
The boy’s voice began to tremble, and a tear rolled down his cheek. Box slipped his notebook into his pocket, and sat down at the table.
‘Don’t think about that, now, Tom. Just tell me why you said those peculiar words to Sergeant Griffiths.’
Tom’s face flushed red, and the tears began to flow unheeded.
‘What do you mean? I told him the truth.’
‘I know you did. There’s no need to take on like that. I’m not shouting at you, or accusing you of anything. But you said something very odd, Tom. You said, “He’s been murdered! It’s not respectful to do a thing like that”. What did you mean by those words?’
Tom Slater did not answer at once, He continued to eat his toast, and sip his tea, regarding Box with a sulky frown. Box, a keen photographer himself, looked with interest at the various mahogany cameras stacked on shelves around the room. That was a Thornton Pickard over there, and next to it one of those magnificent Negrettti and Zambras…. Box sighed. Such aristocrats were beyond the pocket of a man who earned twenty-five shillings a week. He suddenly recalled John Martin, the fallen ostler. Martin’s fine had been paid earlier in the week by Sergeant Billings from Stables. Poor old John Martin! He’d really have to visit him soon, to see how he was. He lived somewhere near Bermondsey Leather Market. Maybe after the coming jaunt to Cornwall with Sergeant Knollys….
He jumped slightly as Tom’s youthful tones suddenly broke the silence. The boy’s brow had cleared, and he looked
positively
cheerful.
‘When I went up to Mr Oldfield on the bed, I thought he was asleep, but then I saw the dagger thing sticking up, and the card on his forehead, and I knew he must be dead.’
‘A card?’ said Box gently.
‘Yes. There was a card placed on his forehead. I carefully took the card away. I was terrified in case I touched him…. I took it away. It wasn’t respectful to do a thing like that.’
The toast had all been eaten, and the tea half drunk.
‘When you say a card, Tom, do you mean a calling-card?’
There was a slight but definite edge of compulsion to Box’s voice. Tom, avoiding his eyes, felt in his pocket, and took out a white card, which he handed to Box.
‘It wasn’t right,’ he said.
It was a simple printed calling-card, bearing the legend: ‘Dr N.I. Karenin.’
‘Inspector Box! Fancy meeting you again!’
Fiske of the
Graphic,
displaying a jaunty smile beneath his fierce black moustache, stood on one of the platforms at Paddington Station, looking into the third-class carriage. The great black engine at the front of the stopping-train to Exeter was already making ferocious noises prior to beginning its long journey to the West Country.
‘I suppose you just happened to be passing, Billy?’ said Box, who had lowered the window on seeing the political reporter weaving his way through the crowd. ‘Sergeant Knollys and I are going down to Exeter on business. What’s that little
wickerwork
basket you’re carrying? You haven’t taken up selling things as a sideline, have you?’
For answer, Billy Fiske passed the basket to Box over the window sill. He pushed his old-fashioned high-crowned hat off his forehead, and stood with his hands in his overcoat pockets, looking nonchalantly down the platform.
‘That’s a little something by way of refreshment,’ he said, ‘for you and Sergeant Knollys there to while away the weary hours on the way to Exeter. Or beyond. Just a little courtesy from one gentleman to another.’
Arnold Box put the hamper down on the seat beside him,
and looked at the irrepressible but kind-hearted reporter. Somehow, he’d found out that they were on their way to Cornwall. Maybe the walls at King James’s Rents had grown too thin for comfort.
‘Thank you kindly, Mr Fiske,’ he said. ‘And while you’re here, you can tell me how you came to be in that alley when the row at Sir Abraham Goldsmith’s residence blew up.’
Mr Fiske glanced around him before lowering his voice. There were times, as Box knew, when the reporter liked to make a mystery of quite mundane experiences. After all, that was one of the vital skills of his trade.
‘I got a note, Mr Box, a note delivered to my desk at the
Graphic.
Be
there,
it said.
Something
very
exciting
in
the
news
line’s
going
to
happen.’
Box contrived to look excited.
‘I don’t suppose it was delivered by a milky-white cove with blue-black hair and a foreign way of walking, was it?’ he asked.
‘It may have been, for all I know. The little post-boy received it. Albert, he’s called. Supposed to be fourteen, but looks twelve, and behaves like it. But it was a good tip-off, Mr Box and, thanks to you not kicking up a fuss, I got my story. Did you read it?’
‘I never read your stuff on principle, but Sergeant Knollys here read it, and thought it was very good. All about the lion’s fearsome roar drowning the uncertain growl of the bear.’
‘That’s right. I thought it was good myself, though I shouldn’t say so. I took little Froggy Carter with me to add social credibility, as it were. He did a very nice account of it all for the
Sketch
. And here’s another little morsel of news for you, courtesy of the
Graphic
. Lady Courteline left England early today for Odessa. She’s believed to be planning a visit to
relatives
in Russia.’
‘Odessa? Who told you that, Billy?’
‘A little bird told me, Mr Box. A little bird with white mutton-chop whiskers.’
‘Name of Mervyn, and with a nest in Edgerton Square?’
‘That’s as may be. Anyway, she’s gone to Russia. Maybe she took fright when these nasty incidents began, though she’s nothing to fear, poor dear lady, for all that she’s a Russian by birth. Incidentally, we’ve heard on the grapevine that the Russian papers are howling about “Anglo–German aggression”. Strewth, Mr Box, can you imagine Anglo–German
anything
after the Hansa Protocol business? And the Berlin papers are going mad with talk about a secret Franco–Russian pact – but hello! It looks as though you’re off. Have a nice time in Exeter.’
The engine had worked itself into a frenzy, and a number of porters were sternly ordering people to stand back from the train. A whistle was blown, and a flag unfurled. As the train moved away on its long journey, Mr Fiske mouthed the word ‘Porthcurno’ at them through the closed window, grinned impudently, and raised his hat in mock salute.
‘I’ve not had time to think today, Sergeant,’ said Box, settling himself glumly into his thinly upholstered seat. ‘Old Growler practically threw me out of the Rents this morning. Assignments! He gave me two trains to choose from for this Cornwall jaunt, hoping that I’d choose the Exeter express tomorrow, so that he could sneer at me for being a wet lettuce, and plumping for the easy option. That’s why we’ve caught this one, the four-fifteen stopping-train.’
‘Very kind of you to choose for us both, sir,’ said Knollys drily. ‘Just about three hundred miles, with interesting stops along the way.’
‘I’m not giving him the satisfaction, Sergeant, of smirking at me for choosing the soft option. We’ll stay the night somewhere when we get there.’
The long train had drawn out of the station, and was moving in rather stately fashion through the London suburbs. It was a bright afternoon, but a grey haze was creeping across Paddington from the general direction of Maida Vale.
‘Sir,’ said Knollys, ‘this Dr Karenin has turned out to be
something more than just a man who came to England in search of private vengeance. He’s right at the centre of the Courteline affair, and now, from what you say, he’s popped up at Falcon Street—’
‘Yes, he has; and that shows that he’s still in England, and still intent on some peculiar venture of his own. That’s why I’ve brought that photograph of Hatpin Man with me. The one that Mr Palmer gave me. Colonel Kershaw told me that there’d been some devilry going on at Porthcurno, where this unfortunate man Pascoe worked. Perhaps our friend Karenin had been up to his murderous tricks down there, too.’
‘You may be right, sir.’
‘This Karenin seems to be the common factor behind the deaths of Courteline and Killer Kitely, and it was Karenin, in his rather nasty guise of the Hatpin Man, who silenced Gabriel Oldfield, presumably for similar reasons. (Maybe Oldfield was one of the Colonel’s lesser fry. I don’t know.) Then again, it was Karenin who engineered that nasty incident at Sir Abraham Goldsmith’s reception. The common factor, that’s what he is.’
‘You visited an old Russian gentleman, didn’t you, sir? A retired art dealer who’d known Karenin in his youth. You told me that Colonel Kershaw had dug him out for you. Did you learn anything from him?’
‘His name was Borodin, Sergeant, and he lived in one of those narrow houses in Russell Street, Covent Garden. This Mr Borodin told me a very sad tale, Sergeant – very touching, really. Dr Nikolai Ivanovich Karenin was a struggling young doctor, living in Odessa in the ’60s. He fell in love with a beautiful and well-connected young lady called Maria Askasov, who apparently doted on him. At the same time, the young John Courteline was living in Odessa, managing a
shipping
line for his wealthy father, and he, too, fell for this Maria Askasov.’
‘And the girl’s parents, no doubt, were fond of money? I can see where this is going to end, sir.’
‘Yes, so could I, Sergeant. Dr Karenin was of a revolutionary
turn of mind, and threw in his lot with a firebrand called Zinoviev. Karenin and Maria had planned to elope, but on the eve of their flight, Karenin and Zinoviev were seized, and accused of subversion. Karenin was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. No one knows what happened to Zinoviev. Mr Borodin believes that it was Courteline who betrayed the couple to the authorities. If that was true, it adds a bit of
credibility
to Karenin’s desire for revenge.’
‘It does, indeed. And so the young lovers were parted. That’s a very sad tale, sir.’
‘It is, Sergeant. But life goes on. Within the year Maria Askasov had married the young John Courteline, much to her parents’ delight. And she lives now, a lifetime later, as Lady Courteline, in her widow’s house in Edgerton Square.’
The train was leaving London behind. Box opened the
wickerwork
hamper that Fiske of the
Graphic
had given them. It contained a number of savoury-smelling items carefully wrapped in tissue paper, and flanked by four bottles of Style’s Burton Ale. Box opened one of the little parcels. The two halves of a Scotch egg, laid side by side, looked up at him
reproachfully
.
‘Here, Jack,’ he said, ‘have a Scotch egg, and one of these bottles of ale. What else is there? Two beef rolls, A slab of Cheddar cheese. Celery. Some oat cakes. I wonder has he—? Yes, a bottle opener. So let’s partake of afternoon tea.’
‘You know, sir,’ said Knollys, when he had consumed both halves of the Scotch egg, ‘our Dr Karenin seems very adept at murders – not short of a few ideas, as they say. I wonder why he didn’t give himself the pleasure of finishing off Sir John Courteline himself?’
Box propped his bottle of ale upright in a corner of the hamper, and absent-mindedly wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
‘Well, you see, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘Karenin didn’t want to run the risk of Lady Courteline recognizing him. If she’d stumbled across him in her house in Edgerton Square, she’d have shown that she knew him. Couldn’t help herself. “Karenin!” she’d have cried, and all would have been revealed. Why take the risk
when you can hire someone like Killer Kitely to do the work for you?’
Sergeant Knollys regarded his superior officer with
something
like affectionate concern. The guvnor isn’t thinking straight this afternoon, he thought. His mind’s elsewhere.
‘Sir, you said just now that Karenin didn’t want to run the risk of Lady Courteline recognizing him. Then why did he leave his card? And have you considered the alternative?’
‘What do you mean? What alternative?’
‘Maybe Karenin hired Killer Kitely because he didn’t want to run the risk of Lady Courteline
not
recognizing him.’
‘But she did! At least—’
‘She never saw him, sir. What she
did
see was a card with Karenin’s name written on it. It’s not the same thing. Anyone can leave a card. Conjurors produce cards from the most unlikely places.’
The train clattered over a blackened viaduct, and skirted a depressing huddle of terraces surrounding a factory with four high smoke stacks, which poured thick yellow vapour to the skies.
‘Sleaford Heath,’ said Box. ‘This is Seabutt’s Chemical Works, where they found Smiler Molesworth buried in
quicklime
after Thomas John Bridgehouse confessed all to the chaplain at Wandsworth. An illusionist? You’re suggesting, aren’t you, Sergeant, that our pale-faced assassin is not the man he seems.’
‘Something like that, sir. After all, most people in England have never heard of him. What’s the point of drawing attention to yourself when your identity means nothing to your
audience
?’
‘You know, Sergeant Knollys,’ said Box, and there was a glint of excitement in his eyes, ‘you’ve set me thinking straight again. You say that no one in England’s ever heard of Dr Karenin. But there is something that the general public knows about him. They know that he’s a
Russian.
It’s not
who
he is but
what
he is that he’s advertising. It’s a Russian who murders decent Englishmen with hatpins; a Russian who
arranges the death of one of England’s greatest idols. It’s a Russian who publicly insults the popular and respected Sir Charles Napier. And then, lo and behold! it’s the Russians who sink an innocent German ship, the
Berlin
Star.
You’ve hinted at a conjuror’s misdirection, and perhaps that’s what it is. When we’ve done with this Cornwall business, Sergeant, we must pay a call on Colonel Kershaw, and tell him what we think.’
‘I’ll be frank with you, Mr Box,’ said Inspector Tregennis of the Cornwall Constabulary, ‘I saw no call for Scotland Yard to be involved in this case, but the chief constable thought otherwise. One of the directors of the Eastern Telegraph Company was very fond of poor William Pascoe, and started to talk to various high-up folk in London. That’s why you’re here, I expect. However, you’re very welcome, and so are you, Sergeant Knollys.’
Box and Knollys had entered Cornwall in the dark hours of the previous night, crossing the Royal Albert Bridge at Saltash in a savage downpour of rain. They had spent the night in a lodging-house at St German’s, and early that morning had caught a slow train which had carried them down the peninsula, and through St Austell to Truro.
Inspector Tregennis, a tall, clean-shaven man with alert blue eyes, had been waiting at the station to greet them. He had taken them on foot to the police station, and into a cramped rear office, where a fire burnt in an old-fashioned blackleaded grate.
‘It’s just a week today, Mr Box, since poor William Pascoe was killed, and there’s been an interesting development since then. It was thought originally that the young man had lost his footing on the cliff path, and plunged to his death, but I’ve found a witness who swears that Pascoe was deliberately killed. Murdered. I have him here.’
Tregennis left the room briefly, and returned with a hale, weather-beaten old man in the well-worn garments of a
gamekeeper
. Or perhaps, thought Box, noticing the capacious
pockets in the man’s coat, a poacher.
‘Caleb Strange,’ said Tregennis, ‘this gentleman is Inspector Box of Scotland Yard. The hefty man standing beside him is Sergeant Knollys. Tell them your story.’
‘Well, mister,’ said Caleb Strange, ‘I reckon Inspector Tregennis there knows me well enough. I’m the man who tends the grounds of Mr Hardesty’s place, Penhellion Court, but I’ve also got permission to lay traps for rabbits and such over the land of Squire Trevannion down at St Columb’s. I was out that way last Tuesday, the fourteenth. I was crouching down behind the rocks just above the main road from St Columb’s to Penzance, seeing to a trap. I looks up, and see Mr William Pascoe climbing up the steep path from Spanish Beach.’
Caleb Strange seemed disinclined to continue. He sat silently shaking his head, apparently at the wickedness of the world.