A Thief in the Night (11 page)

Harry’s neighbour saw him knocking and said that he had seen the professor going out a short while ago. There was nothing for it but to take a cab to the Septimus Club.

In the second-floor room at Buckingham Street thirty people were gathered, eagerly awaiting the appearance of Jurgen Mannheim. The group included scientists, medical men, rationalists of all hues, some believers in thought-reading and a cluster of keen members of the Society for Psychical Research, who were apt to delight in any kind of experiment or demonstration whatsoever which might introduce an element of mystery.

There were three reserved seats at the back of the well-lit room, and at ten to three, heads turned to see Irina Danova, accompanied by two stocky, solid guardians. There was a sudden increase in noise as the conversation level lifted and many spoke the name ‘Danova’. Monsieur Dalevy and Bruzov struggled to find a degree of comfort, and an attendant tactfully brought in a large chair for the big Russian, who sweated and puffed after climbing the stairs, and patted his face with a gaudy handkerchief.

But Irina was disturbed by some new knowledge. As she had stepped into the cab on the way, she heard Monsieur Dalevy say to Bruzov, ‘Don’t worry, we took care of Glazin’. She wanted to scream and lunge at the Frenchman. Her cousin and former manager, Rudolph, was supposed to be ill and resting in Paris. Her heart was beating so fast that she feared a collapse. These men, they had killed her friend, and now they were pushing her to help in the ruin of another man.

Yet she somehow contained her passion and as they took their seats, she longed for George to come. Only he could save her. Then Monsieur Dalevy whispered in her ear, ‘Now remember, my dear, Sir Fawley Jones is our man. You are to take him outside to the stairs when things stop and people are having drinks … then leave the rest to me.’

She nodded. All she had been told was that Sir Fawley Jones caused many deaths, many years ago, in India. If she did not play her part, her father would die. The simple balance of facts was enough to give her the resolve she needed. But now things were different. Now
they
were the killers.

Shortly before three o’clock George was at the Septimus Club and had collected his letter. He opened it immediately and the little golden owl fell into his hand. The note wrapped around it read: ‘19, Buckingham Street – come quickly.’ He was in a cab within a minute, shouting out the address. The cabby did his best but there was a throng of people, horses and carts, packing every street and progress was slow. He rapped on the roof, and heard the shout of, ‘Tryin’ me best, Guv. Some wagon fell over on the ’aymarket … I’ll turn and try another way!’

Harry and Eddie had made it to Buckingham Street, entering the premises by a back staircase. Eddie told the attendant who he was, and they were allowed to wait outside the room, behind the speakers.

‘I’ve had no time to tell Sir Fawley Jones,’ Eddie said. ‘He needs to know that there may be danger.’ But before he could intervene, Sir Fawley Jones stood up and introduced Jurgen Mannheim. The Foreign Secretary was a man of military bearing: upright, firm-jawed and well built. He spoke with a balance of information and speculation, showing a deep interest in things paranormal.

‘Some of my colleagues in the House were rather tormenting me for coming here today, such are the limits of their poor benighted minds. But I feel sure that our guest will provoke some thought here today. I present Jurgen Mannheim, mesmerist.’

After some applause, Mannheim began his talk, and after an explanation of his life and his intentions with this ‘new science’ he asked for someone from the audience to be his aide in demonstrating the hypnotic state.

A young man volunteered and was asked about any illness he might have. He replied, ‘I have a st … stutter you s … see Herr M … M … Mannheim.’

A few people tried unsuccessfully to suppress their giggles of amusement and they received a hard stare from Sir Fawley Jones.

‘You have had treatment for this I assume?’ Mannheim asked.

‘Everything has failed, Sir. A dozen medical men have tried to remove the stutter, and they have failed.’

‘Very well, let us begin.’ The young man sat before Mannheim, who proceeded to swing a pendant before him and speak in a soothing, lyrical way. He told the young man that he would speak fluently, with no hesitation, and he suggested some little tricks to use, in his mind, to feel the courage to speak.

The result was impressive, and the patient proceeded to answer questions about his life from the audience with complete confidence and without hesitation. There was widespread applause and many eager questions. Sir Fawley Jones then invited everyone for drinks in the adjoining room.

With Monsieur Dalevy’s hand on her arm, Irina was urged forward from the back of the room. ‘Now,’ he hissed. ‘Go now!’ She glanced down and saw a revolver in his hand, half hidden by his cuff. She knew at once what he intended to do and, walking towards Sir Fawley Jones, who saw her and smiled, holding out a hand to greet her, she pointed back to the Frenchman and screamed out, ‘He is here to kill you Sir!’

At that moment, George had rushed up the stairs and was pushing his way through the crowd towards Irina. Harry, watching behind, ran and did his best rugby tackle on Sir Fawley Jones, knocking him out of the line of fire. The first bullet hit Irina in the head and she fell instantly, a few feet from George.

The crowd ran for cover, then a crack whipped across the room and the gunman fell to the ground. Eddie had seen that there was no time to allow any advantage to be given to this desperate man.

Eddie ordered everyone away from the dying man, but Sir Fawley Jones had to know who had wanted to take his life. He peered over the man, then said, ‘Ah, Kaspari! After all these years … you never forgot.’

‘This is Paul Dalevy, the French singer, Sir,’ Eddie corrected him.

‘No my friend, this is Dmitri Kaspari, of the Russian Army.’

‘You will pay in Hell, Jones!’ were the dying man’s last words.

Across the room, George was holding Irina’s hand. Now there was nothing and he would never be the same man again. She was cold and still; there was no response to the call of her name and he resigned himself to losing her, lowering his head to kiss her lips one last time.

His chin slammed against the hard wood of the floor and he felt a fist beating at his back. Then the strong hand held him firm. He had no strength to move and could only scream his protest in fitful bursts of strength which he willed from the depths of his misery. Would this animal never stop? The cries turned to sobs. He felt his naked stomach scrape along the wood and something sharp pressed into his belly, as if he were dragged along a bed of nails.

‘Please … stop! For pity’s sake.’

‘Ah soldier boy … my soldier boy … lovely young flesh you have, son…’

His tormentor jabbed at him with his heels, drawing blood-spots where the metal had bitten.

‘Oh you beautiful little fanny. But why so still?’ The man slammed his fist into the floor
.

The brother and sister were in their early twenties and had had a good night out. They were on their way home to their lodging house when they decided to turn into Eldon Street and pay a call on their younger brother.

‘Well, he never leaves the home as far as I can see, Jess,’ said Charlie with a wry tone.

‘No, he’ll be working on the next great historical canvas I expect,’ Jessie laughed.

They knocked with some force, as he was on the second floor and always had his door shut. But the front door swung open and with exclamations of surprise they went in, Charlie leading the way, shouting, ‘Willy … it’s Charlie. You there?’

‘He’s probably dreaming of ancient Rome!’ Jessie smirked. The door to the artist’s room was open as well, and Charlie went straight in, noticing the clothes strewn across the floor and a corner table knocked over. The place was silent and, feeling alarmed, Charlie told his sister to stay back and wait.

‘Is something wrong?’

Focusing his eyes in the gloom, with only moonlight to guide him, Charlie saw a heap of canvases piled up high in the corner and he moved towards them. Moving two or three out of the way, he saw part of an arm. He took the last ones away and saw his brother lying on the floor, completely naked, arms spread wide, his head turned to one side. ‘Willy … for God’s sake, Willy!’ he shouted. But there was no movement, and when he put a hand to his brother’s head, there was the sticky, matted mess of blood.

‘Stay back, Jess … stay back!’

But it was too late. Jessie was standing behind him and she flung herself down across her brother, sobbing, wanting him to live. Charlie felt for a pulse. ‘He’s gone …’