Episode 17: London Particulars
London
March 1900
‘ — so if the policeman hadn’t come along at that moment, I don’t know exactly where Dr Reece would have taken me — or what he would have done,’ Miranda said with a shiver.
‘You showed great courage and initiative, Miss Colston,’ Arthur Lock said. ‘When I asked for your help with some research, I didn’t intend you should put yourself in harm’s way. You certainly went beyond the call of duty for a librarian.’
Miranda giggled and blushed a little. Arthur had been watching the girl closely as she told her tale, a tale of what appeared to be an encounter with the executive committee of the Pickerel Institute. Unremarkable to look at, she was clad in the drab grey clothes of the lower-middle class office worker, eyes hidden behind brown-rimmed spectacles, light brown hair untidily pinned up. She was small and there was something half-formed and childish about her features. She didn’t quite look the fifteen years old she professed. Mousy would be the lazy epithet to use of her, but Arthur was familiar enough with human nature to know that the most unremarkable appearances often disguise the most valiant souls. Nothing mousy about this one, he thought. There’s the heart of a lioness concealed in that little frame.
They were sitting in the drawing room of the apartment on Great Russell Street. After a few weeks in Shropshire, Arthur and Peggy had returned to London, leaving Herbert Draper in charge of Tarian Hall. They had come down to London to continue with the decoration and furnishing of the apartment.
They had spent interminable, to Arthur anyway, hours in furniture stores, while Peggy chose items for the drawing room and reception room, the bedrooms and dining room having been taken care of on their first stay. Arthur’s contribution to the expedition was to nod and take his chequebook from his pocket.
‘You can’t simply agree with everything I propose,’ Peggy said at one point. ‘Surely you have an opinion on this curtain material?’
She held up a swatch of a William Morris pattern, white and yellow tulips and lilies on a green and black background.
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t,’ Arthur said. ‘I’ve always lived in houses that already had curtains or in tents. It makes no difference to me what colour or pattern we have.’
Peggy pouted. ‘But it’s so much responsibility for me.’
‘Would you like me to ask Mrs Marston to take over?’ Arthur said.
Mrs Marston was their London housekeeper, kind, efficient, but disapproving of the ‘modern’ taste with which Peggy had furnished the apartment so far.
Peggy rolled her eyes. ‘Now you’re just trying to provoke me. She’d drape and wrap every item in the room, from the piano to the furniture legs to the gas fittings.’
Now Arthur looked around the drawing room, kitted out with oak bookcases and sideboards from Heal’s, sofas and armchairs in red and gold fabric from Waring and Gillow, and tables from Maple’s, with satisfaction. The girl had done a good job: it was tasteful and comfortable. And no clutter.
Among the letters that had been waiting on the doormat when they came down from Shropshire had one from Miss Miranda Colston of the London Library, asking for an interview so that she could relay some important findings about the Pickerel institute, an organization which Arthur had begun to believe was nothing but a phantom.
The gas lamps in the room were turned up high even though it was mid-afternoon. A thick yellow-brown fog had cloaked the city all day, blotting out the sun, blotting out the sky, blotting out everything over fifty feet away. It hung at the windows, as if seeking an opening so it could seep into the apartment.
‘I’ve made a clean copy of the notes I took,’ Miranda said, handing Arthur six sheets of writing paper.
Arthur studied the notes, all written in a neat cursive script. They were comprehensive: names, physical descriptions, verbatim conversations. The girl had done extraordinarily well. Her report was more than he could have hoped for. And it gave him his first actual scent of the quarry.
But he couldn’t do it all on his own. There was Draper to help, of course, and there was Peggy. Though he had wanted to keep her out of this, but… well, good luck with that, Major Lock. He had already contacted Sir Edward Bradford and made an appointment for that afternoon. But it was all still insubstantial. If this Pickerel Institute was conducting research into children with psychical abilities, then there was no law against that. And the only man he could definitely tie back to the burglary in Ireland was dead.
But there was one thing that nagged at him: the conversation that Miss Colston had overheard about this child who had died, Mistress Susan. There was nothing in the reported conversation that showed the death was anything other than an accident, and yet…
He and Peggy had been together for almost every day of the last three months. Only now was he realizing the young woman she was — headstrong, passionate, principled. She was as invested as he was in bringing these villains to account. So far he had shared everything with her way: the Mayfair break-in, his hitherto fruitless search for a lead on the Pickerel institute, and Miss Colston’s letter. There was no question that Peggy wouldn’t be present at the interview. And now the two of them were getting on famously.
‘More tea, Miss Colston?’ Peggy said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘And another scone? Sure, a slim girl like you can fit another one in.’
‘They are rather good,’ Miss Colton said, needing no persuasion. ‘Did your housekeeper make them, Miss Lock?’
‘No, she did not,’ Peggy said vehemently. ‘I made them myself. It’s my mother’s recipe, and she got it from her mother.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Miranda said, blushing. ‘I didn’t mean to — I’m sorry, Miss Lock.’
‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ Peggy said. ‘It didn’t offend me one bit. It was only my pride speaking. And please, call me Peggy, won’t you?’
‘Then you must call me Miranda.’
‘That I will.’
Arthur finished scanning Miranda’s report. ‘This is first class work, Miss —’
‘Miranda, please call me that too, Major.’
‘Miranda, then. This makes things a lot clearer.’ He checked his pocket watch. ‘Now, I must go. I have an appointment at Scotland Yard. I’m going to speak to the Chief Commissioner about this affair and see what he can do about it. Peggy, will you look after Miss — Miranda for the rest of her visit and arrange a cab for her?’
‘Oh, it’s quite alright, Major. I can get the train.’
‘No, I insist. We’ve put you to a great deal of trouble, and the least I can do is get you a cab home. And I’d like to give you a small —’
Arthur reached for his wallet.
Miranda shook her head. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t. Really, you’ve both been most kind. Having tea with you has been a treat.’
‘But all that stress and strain you went through in Cambridge?’ Peggy said.
‘Oh no,’ Miranda said. ‘I mean, I had a bit of fright when they discovered me listening in, and especially when Dr Reece marched me off, but really, I enjoyed the whole thing. It was a real-life adventure, you see.’
‘Yes, I do see,’ said Peggy.
Arthur said nothing. Judging by this Reece’s track record, the girl might have left Cambridge in a coffin. Thank God that policeman got to her first. She didn’t know how close to death she had come and Arthur wasn’t going to tell her.
‘Listen, Miranda,’ Peggy said. ‘if Arthur is going to desert us, I wonder if you’d like to take a turn around the British Museum with me — if you have time, that is. Though we’re just across the road from it, I haven’t visited it yet, and I’m desperate to see it.’
‘Yes, I have time, and I’d like to very much.’
Arthur was satisfied with this outcome. Good — a new friend for Peggy, and perhaps Miranda Colston’s talents could be of use at some point further down the line in this investigation.
* * *
At five o’clock, Arthur Lock entered Sir Edward Bradford’s office at Scotland Yard. The old man was standing by the window, looking across the Victoria Embankment to the Thames.
‘Damn pea-soupers. This London air will be the death of me.’
‘It’s terrible today, sir.’
‘You wouldn’t know it, Lock, but there’s a splendid view from this window.’ He sucked on his pipe. ‘They put me in an office on the other side of the building when I first came here. A grand office, appropriate for the Chief Commissioner, but I felt cooped up. This one might be smaller, but at least I can see some sky and the river — on some days, anyway. Mind you, the superintendent I evicted wasn’t happy about it.’
Arthur went and stood next to Sir Edward at the window. On the embankment, traffic moved through the fog, phantoms forms barely visible: hansoms, omnibuses, carts, all steered by muffled men keeping their horses on a tight rein. Then two of the phantoms on the road lane nearest Scotland Yard collided. Through the fog and the window came the faint but unmistakable sounds of distressed horses, a rumbling combustion engine, crunching machinery, and angry voices.
‘The damn fool in a horseless carriage braked too quickly and the horses behind have gone into him.’ Sir Edward said.
‘Ah, I wondered what it was,’ Lock said. ‘You know, I’ve never seen one of those things close up.’
‘I can’t see those contraptions ever replacing the dependable horse, can you?’
‘No, sir, I can’t’
Lock’s eyes moved to the river, where nothing was visible except the lights on the tugs making their way downriver to the docks, and those on the barges on their way upriver to Middlesex, Surrey, and beyond
‘It’s easy to forget that the Thames is one of the Empire’s major arteries,’ Bradford said. ‘It seems so familiar and yet if an enemy blockaded it, we’d be on our knees quickly.’
‘That’s a very pessimistic thought, sir. We have the greatest navy in the world. The high seas are our lake. There’s no other navy in the world that comes close in terms of size, firepower, or seamanship.’
Sir Edward nodded slightly. ‘You’re right, Lock, of course. The older I get, the more morose I am, it seems.’
‘I suppose coming into the office on a Saturday afternoon doesn’t help, sir.’
Sir Edward made a dismissive gesture with his only hand. ‘Oh, London never rests and neither does the Met. There are always matters to attend to and papers to deal with. Now, Lock, take a seat and tell me what’s so urgent that you want to speak with me on a weekend?’
Lock seated himself in a chair upholstered in green leather. The old man took a similar seat behind his desk and refilled his pipe.
Lock had not seen Sir Edward in person since they had breakfasted at Mrs Grimaldi’s establishment in Strutton Ground, back in October. But they had communicated by letter, and Lock had told Sir Edward of the events in Ireland — the two deaths and the stolen notebooks — and of the Pickerel Institute, an organization on whose mysterious existence the intrepid Miss Colston had now shone a light. Lock breezed over how he first heard of the Institute, assuming Sir Edward would not approve of the breaking and entering of a solicitor’s office, however just the cause. When he concluded the tale, Sir Edward puffed thoughtfully on his pipe and watched the smoke coil to the ceiling meditatively.
‘And how did you get onto this Pickerel Institute in the first place?’
Ah, he’s spotted the unspoken link in the chain of reasoning, Lock thought. Damn. ‘I, er… let’s say, I used unorthodox methods, sir.’
‘Hmmm… well, best not dwell on that. Now as to these men your little detective found Cambridge, none of the names mean anything to me except one.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Yes, this Melrose chap. I’ve met him. He chaired a commission on Indian policing a few years back, which I gave evidence to. Fellow of St Cuthbert’s College, Cambridge. History professor, and prominent member of the Fabian Society.’
‘I know, sir. I looked him up in Who’s Who.’
‘So what the devil’s a chap like that doing dabbling in this sort of thing?’
‘I should say he’s doing more than dabbling, sir.’
‘Yes, it bothers me, Lock. It bothers me a great deal. Well, it seems we have some kind of conspiracy on our hands. Though to what end, I can’t fathom. Can you?’
’No, sir.’
‘I shall have to let Mr and Mrs Saunders know we have word of their son and that he’s alive and well — as far as we know.’
Sir Edward took a long look at Lock. ‘We have to tread carefully from now on. Assuming these children are being kept in a secret location, if I haul Melrose in for questioning, it’ll put him and the others on high alert. They might move the children. Saunders won’t like it — in fact, he’ll go straight to the Home Secretary and start rattling his cage. We need a subtle approach. If I ask the Cambridge Constabulary to look into it, well…’
There was a question hanging in the air between them.
‘With your permission, sir, I’d like to tackle it. I have a personal interest in bringing these men to justice.’
Sir Edward nodded. ‘It’ll be unofficial, of course. With full deniability on my part. Until we have a clear idea of what they’re up to and enough evidence to charge them. As for those unorthodox methods you mentioned, do what you must. I just don’t want to know about them. And if you get caught, you’ll have the full weight of the law dropping on you.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘And to be clear, no revenge. We deal in the English law here, not vigilantism.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s agreed then. I’ll appoint a member of the Detective Branch to liaise with you. Detective Inspector Steele. He’s rough around the edges, but steadfast and a damned good man. Intelligent too, despite his lack of formal schooling. If there’s anything we can do, whether it’s surveillance or access to criminal records or legal advice, let Steele know. You’ll find him downstairs — go and introduce yourself. And as soon as you have something concrete in the way of evidence or intended criminality, you’re to hand the matter over to him for formal investigation. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Unless, of course, you want to take up the offer I made to you last time we met?’
‘I’m still mulling it over, sir,’ Lock said untruthfully.
‘Hmm, well, don’t take too long about. Now get out of here so I can get on with the bureaucratic nonsense I came in here on a Saturday to deal with.’
* * *
At nine o’clock that evening, Tony Lock walked out of the fog and into a tavern on Cheapside. Tony usually avoided taverns, finding them dirty, stinking places, full of the unwashed and the criminal. Why on earth his new acquaintance had chosen this tavern as a meeting place was beyond him. Though the air here was foul, it was a relief to be out of the yellow fog that burnt the back of his throat like acid.
Tony navigated a path through the clientele, avoiding brushing up against any of them or, heaven forbid, making eye contact.
‘Here comes Lord Sniffy,’ someone said as he passed.
‘Ooh, look at that fur collar. Wonder if he hunted down the beast himself,’ said another.
To Tony’s great relief, he quickly found the snug he had been told to look for. And there was the chap.
The first letter from this chap had come out of the blue. Tony would have chucked it straight into the bin, but its mention of money. Specifically, money for him. In return for information.
He had felt a little disloyal when he met the new acquaintance for the first time, at the Lyon’s Corner house on Coventry Street. But after all, what was a man supposed to do when the inheritance he had expected from his uncle had turned out to be a small one?
It salved his conscience somewhat when it turned out this chap was hostile to that insufferable prig Arthur. Join the club, old man, Tony had thought. My enemy’s enemy and all that…
He called to the barman for a whisky and sat down.
‘Well?’ the chap said. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘The money first,’ Tony said, looking furtive and pulling his hat down.
The new acquaintance handed him an envelope under the table, and Tony shoved it into his coat pocket.
‘They’re living in an apartment on Great Russell Street. Here’s the address,’ he said, pushing Arthur’s card across the table.
The chap took the card without looking at it. ‘Useful, but we would have found that out ourselves without too much work. What else?’
‘Well, he’s clearly got a bee in his bonnet about Henry and Kitty’s deaths. Seems to think it wasn’t an accident. Though how the hell —’
‘What did he say about it, exactly?’
‘Said that some chap called Dalton — no idea who the hell that is — died under similar circumstances. Waffled on about some — what do you call it — infectious agent?’
Tony threw some coins on the counter and took his whisky.
‘I say,’ he said. ‘You don’t think there was anything funny about the deaths, do you?’
The new acquaintance shook his head. ‘No, of course not. The deaths were perfectly natural. I told you before, Dr Lock had agreed to sell his research papers to me. It was only his untimely death that…’
‘Yes, deuced bad luck, that.’
Tony took a sip of his whisky and used the opportunity to take a proper look at the new acquaintance. Pale chap, undernourished by the look of him, and always that film of sweat on his brow.
‘What about the girl?’ the chap said.
‘What about her?’
‘You spent time with her?’
‘I had dinner with the two of them. Though that bloody prig Arthur didn’t leave me alone with her for a second.’
‘So what else have you got to justify the money in that envelope I just handed you?’
‘Well, Arthur’s obsessed with getting these notebooks back.’ Tony paused. ‘I don’t suppose you know who’s got them?’
The chap shook his head.
‘He seems to think he’s got a lead on who stole them.’
‘Does he? And who might that be?’
‘He didn’t say?’
‘And you didn’t ask.’
‘Look, I can’t give him the old cross-examination, can I? That would soon raise his suspicions. And his hackles. I have to be subtle. I invited Peggy to come riding with me in Hyde Park next week. She’s accepted, so I’ll have her to myself. I should have more for you after that.’
‘You’d better have. And remember, though Arthur Lock is an irritation at present, it’s the girl I’m really interested in.’
‘And you mean her no harm?’
The chap sighed. ‘As I’ve told you before, quite the opposite.’
Tony had concluded after their first meeting that the new acquaintance was quite deluded. He had spoken about Peggy’s so-called gift, and claimed she was a member of something he called homo superioris. Tony remembered enough Latin from Harrow to know what that meant. All mumbo-jumbo, of course, but no harm in it. Not at the moment, anyway. And he saw in it an opportunity to drive a wedge between Arthur and Peggy.
‘Anything else?’ the new acquaintance said.
‘No, nothing else.’
‘Then we’ll meet again in two weeks.’
‘Very well, Barker. Two weeks. But not in a bloody tavern again, I hope.’