Disquiet at Albany (2 page)

3

Tea at Fortnum's

The blustery weather did not abate, with rain expected later. Holding onto our hats we crossed the main road, then a brisk walk under steely-grey, overcast skies brought us to the famous emporium at No. 181 Piccadilly. Passing through the opulent food hall, upstairs we found a delighted Langton Lovell and Charles Lemon frantically beckoning us over to a table set for six persons. A waitress busied herself arranging the tea things.

Two people whom I did not recognise, one who had his face buried in a musical score, the other charming and amiable, a cheerier personality altogether, were introduced to us as the lyricist Philip Troy and composer Christopher Chymes respectively, both working on the new musical and even now putting finishing touches to the score. In fact, they would be going on to a full dress rehearsal later, it being less than a fortnight before the light opera was to be performed for the first time in front of an invited audience of guests and West End theatre critics at the Wimborne Theatre. All concerned hoped it would become a smash box office hit. During casual conversation I learnt that Christopher Chymes was himself a resident at Albany, staying temporarily at the exclusive block of apartments because his father, when not abroad in Morocco, lived there.

‘Yes, I know Ethby to nod to. I mean, none of us gets involved with small talk. We're all fairly reserved and respect each other's privacy when at home, but I have occasionally bumped into him along the Rope Walk. Garson, his valet, is a gentleman's gentleman and a first-rate fellow. If I'm out shopping along the arcade he'll invariably doff his bowler and stop for a chat. It's so damned appalling that Ethby, now confined to a wheeled chair, hardly ever emerges from his set. Old Garson told me in confidence the doctors have given up on him. They give him a month at most. Such a pity his parliamentary career got cut short like that just because of that wasting disease. A human skeleton, “rag bag of bones” is how he describes his master when out shopping in Piccadilly. Damned shame.

‘Of course, I'm busy at my piano writing tunes all day, preparing the score. I want to hear that overture stomp, stomp, stomp, and deliver such a catchy melody that all the audience will be up on their feet and clapping their hands in under fifty seconds flat. Philip's written some amazing lyrics. He looks rather a miserable chap, but he writes the sweetest phrases, and of course when Langton and Charles read the music and words they immediately took us under their wing and we haven't looked back since.'

‘Yes, I'm sure show business is tough to break into,' I conceded.

‘Ethby Sands – wasn't he a Tory M.P. or something?' mumbled Philip Troy, uttering only a brief pronouncement before disappearing behind his sheaves of script once more.

‘Oh, and another thing, Doctor Watson. I did on one occasion get to see his collection of stuffed birds. He told me how Alfred Wallace managed to trap and kill them in Indonesia. The natives are apparently very partial to the colourful feathers, too. Poor old birds of paradise, that's what I say. I mean, I doubt if there can be many left, can there?'

Of the pair I judged Chymes the more outward going, intensely charming, handsome and debonair, suited and booted by the finest Savile Row tailor and Lobb for footwear. He wore an expensive men's fragrance. I should have hit on ‘Floris' or ‘Trumpers of Bond Street'. The fellow was a pleasure to share tea and conversation with.

Philip Troy, however, was silent and morose. He appeared to me permanently buttoned up and unresponsive to jovial banter, preferring to sit and occasionally sip his tea, scowling at his pocket watch else examining that dratted score, anxious to get away to the theatre, I should imagine, and see the first run-through, check out how the chorus sounded, so I supposed I shouldn't be too hard on the fellow. This was their first big break and I think he was nervous and on edge because of it.

Anyhow, promising Lovell and Lemon we would be there at the Wimborne on the big night, of course we would, and assuring them we wished them every success with their new musical, we bid everyone adieu.

4

Return to Baker Street

After bidding our theatre friends good day, we headed downstairs to Fortnum's food hall on the ground floor, which stocked a wide range of luxury goods. At the counter we purchased packets of exotic tea, ‘Gentlemen's Relish' and potted meats for ourselves, and a boar's head in aspic jelly as a special treat for Mrs Hudson, who of late had been showing signs of disapproval after complaining about Holmes's late-night chemistry, particularly the foul odour upon the stairs and upstairs landing that for some reason had lingered for days without dispersing. My profuse apologies to our landlady on behalf of my wilful colleague had met with angry stares and I noted our normally first-rate breakfasts and suppers of late often arrived cold, else under-cooked, a broad hint that some mode of reparation was in order.

‘Watson, do you perchance recall last Wednesday's edition of the
Telegraph
?'

‘The rugby scores, certainly,' said I.

‘A Norfolk murder – it got barely a mention?' Holmes enquired as our cab rattled round the Circus.

‘Quite possibly.' I now recalled the short but succinct article on page fourteen headlined ‘
Grizzly death. Eel catcher horribly mutilated on the Broads, Norwich police baffled
.'

‘Now I remember – you commented on it at the time.'

‘I received a letter this morning from Inspector Wells of the Norfolk force, requesting in the gravest of terms that I should become involved in a consulting capacity. Incidentally, Watson, the official police surgeon, who remembers you from when you were studying at St Bartholomew's Hospital, insisted I be contacted, for the Norfolk murder bears all the exquisite hallmarks of a classic case, in which my peculiarly unique skills can be tested to the extreme.'

‘You sound like a blasted antiques dealer, Holmes, crowing about a fine piece of rare Ming porcelain picked up at some house sale. A human being is involved who has family, remember.'

‘Be that as it may, we pack for Norfolk this evening, Watson, and leave early tomorrow morning. Your service revolver will of course be requisite for such an excursion into the wetland regions, the damp and dreary climes of the Broads. Let us hope Mrs Hudson shall not serve up yet another inedible supper. Still, I think our handsome pig's head in jelly shall go some way to appeasing our redoubtable Scotch landlady.'

5

Train to Norfolk

According to our well-thumbed copy of Bradshaw's Guide, we were to travel upon the North London Railway before joining the Great Eastern main line which would take us into the county of Norfolk, thence at Norwich we would change trains for a stopping service up the branch to Great Melchett Halt, whence the train continued up the single line to Cromer, that coastal resort renowned for its sea bathing.

A calmer, less blowy morning found us plumped upon cloth-covered seats lounging in a first-class smoker of the Norfolk Express, replete with a bundle of newspapers to help while away the long journey, plus a 2/6d lunch basket for refreshment.

‘Time is of the essence,' said Holmes, crossing his long legs and searching for his pipe and matches, sulphurous smoke from the locomotive in front wafting past our compartment window as we departed King's Cross and headed for the provinces. The morning was cloudy and overcast, a fine shower of rain splashing the glass as our train gathered speed and rumbled over points, passing beneath the gantry of signals.

‘What of Ethby Sands, the missing chap from Albany? Does the case interest you sufficiently or is it a dud? That porter, is he worrying unnecessarily, making a fuss, a mountain out of a mole-hill? The theatre crowd didn't seem too bothered, after all.'

‘I grant you, the possibility of Sands being forcibly removed from his set appears slim, but that deuced wheeled chair left in the hall poses a conundrum. How can a fellow who is supposedly gravely ill with not much time to live and without the use of his legs simply get up one morning and walk out of the door, his valet by his side and neither of them be heard of or seen for a fortnight? No, we cannot rule out foul play altogether. And then there's the queer matter of that missing walking stick.'

‘The what?'

‘The singular metal-headed walking stick, his favourite – absent from the hall stand.'

‘Perhaps the blighter's bluffing, making out he's an invalid when in fact he's as fit as a fiddle, in perfect health – some insurance scam. It does happen, Holmes.'

‘Of course, that is a possibility, Watson. If however it turns out he was abducted from his set under duress, I shall of course intervene. Have you a vesta handy, old man? I appear to have mislaid my matches.'

Travelling express upon Eastern main line metals, by mid-afternoon we had achieved Norwich in good time to change trains for the Cromer push-pull service, which departed in ten minutes.

‘Ah, do you smell the pondweed tang of the wetlands, Watson? The Broads are not far off, our journey's end is in sight.'

‘What a wet and miserable day,' I commented, gazing forlornly out of the window of our stationary passenger coach, considering vaguely the old castle upon the hill, and a light engine earning its keep shunting eight or so trucks laden with sugar beet and a rake of empty parcels vans into a siding. Whilst I pondered the gas works, a manure siding, timber stacked in a yard, our compartment door was pulled open with a bang. Our guard, frowning in a most officious manner, held onto a form which he passed inside to us.

‘Another murder. I have been requested by our station master at Norwich, Mr Eades, to deliver this urgent telegraph message sent down the wires from Great Melchett signal box. You are the Mr Sherlock Holmes referred to here, I take it?'

‘Here's a florin for your trouble, guard. A return message, take this down, inform your telegraph office to send the following reply: “Inspector Wells, be with you on the one o'clock cross country service from Norwich, arrives at Great Melchett Halt 1.35 p.m. Require horse and trap. Sherlock Holmes.”'

The guard duly wrote down all Holmes had related with the stub of his pencil and without delay, for we had but five minutes left until departure, rushed off down the platform.

‘A second murder, Holmes. What does this Inspector Wells have to say?'

‘Bears all the similarities of the first murder. By Jove, Watson, it appears the killer has struck twice in the last fortnight. A grizzly murder too! Perfect for occupying one's mind on a penetratingly cold and damp afternoon, don't you agree?'

Our little two-coach train departed Norwich on time and proceeded to bustle up the branch northward towards Cromer. As our engine blew off steam, our carriages rattling over points, it dawned on me that we were quite possibly the only passengers on the train.

Holmes was positively straining at the leash and couldn't wait to apply his clever brain to the case at hand. At length we drew into our station, just a basic waiting room and parcels office supporting a pagoda shelter.

Barely had we a chance to grab our luggage and walking sticks from the rack above, when there was a loud rap on the pane of the compartment window and we saw a great strapping chap with a florid complexion, wearing a soft cloth cap and plus-fours, about to open the door for us. This just had to be our Inspector Wells, of the Norfolk Constabulary. He helped us down. A little further along the platform, we encountered a dug-up flower bed edged in clay bricks, the name of the station displayed in whitewashed stones against the backdrop of the station master's runner-bean sticks. Beyond the end of the platform were a pair of level crossing gates and a fellow working the signals in his box. A porter, who barely registered our arrival, was stacking milk churns atop a trolley. The grey, lowering sky, the constant drizzly rain damping everything in sight, somehow offered a portent. This was no holiday jaunt but a serious matter of murder and I was impressed by the officious but polite way in which the detective welcomed us to this region of the Broads.

‘Glad to meet you, I'm sure. Inspector Wells, up from Norwich. This is a grim business, gentlemen. It is a vile crime and I must warn you the body discovered but a few hours previous by a local wildfowler is in pieces and being reassembled as we speak.'

6

Murder on the Broads

In no time we were rattling along in a horse and trap, being taken to the scene of the most recent murder at a lonely place on the Broads called Potters Ditch, where there was apparently a derelict windmill, long neglected and allowed to deteriorate, overlooking the channel.

‘Walpole St Thomas lies that way, gentlemen,' explained Wells. ‘The hamlet of Great Melchett is beyond the trees on the far side of that field of swede and turnip, and the road we are travelling on leads eventually to Cromer. Unfortunately I hear the North Sea is claiming the resort for its own and the cliffs are crumbling away.'

To our right was the unending expanse of wetlands and reed beds that formed the famous Broads. All right in summer with the sail boats and holiday tourists, but this gloomy October afternoon the chilly dampness seeped right into one's bones.

‘It's a determined fellow who poaches on these marshes of a misty evening,' remarked Wells.

‘Indeed, what is there to interest the eye?' I remarked. ‘The odd, deformed, windswept hedgerow tree, labourers' cottages dotted about. I have seldom seen a lonelier and more desolate terrain.' I felt the dampness settle on my clothes, my face cold and wet from the ever persistent autumnal drizzle which had not let up since our arrival at the station halt.

‘The victim was using a coracle, you say, inspector?' enquired Holmes. The shallow punt should have been more my preference.'

‘Ideal for stalking duck and other wildfowl for the pot. But this chap were checking his baskets at the time and it was during his inspection for eels that the ferocious attack occurred. Ah, we've almost reached the windmill at Potters Ditch. The sails, you will observe, were long ago dismantled. The place is in a sorry state of repair. There is now a pumping station further up and the mill fell out of use long ago.'

Once we had jumped down from the trap and the horse had been tethered and fed his hay, we ambled across to the edge of a wide channel. A small island lay in the middle of gently lapping water, dark green and silted up due to the to-ing and fro-ing of the police officers in a row boat being ferried across to the island by a local wildfowler who was familiar with the area.

‘The injuries are wholly consistent with a violent, swift attack by a person of great physical prowess who would have been a clever swimmer,' explained Wells. ‘The tidal flow is strong below the water. Misleading, as the channel appears calm, with the surface of the water barely disturbed.'

The police surgeon in attendance, whom I vaguely recognised from my time at St Bartholomew's Hospital as a fellow student, but whose name I could not for the life of me recall, came over and shook hands.

‘Watson, isn't it?' he said, staring at me so I became a trifle uncomfortable. ‘Clayborne, Timothy Clayborne.'

‘Oh yes, I think you were in my year. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes.'

‘Glad to meet you, sir. This is a difficult case to crack. Only last week I was up here, a little further along the channel where the remains of a headless body were found on the bank amongst the patches of rushes. The injuries were severe. Do you want to share my flask of brandy? I can see our climate up here in Norfolk doesn't suit either of you metropolitans. In the autumn we do get a lot of rain and mist. How are you bearing up, Watson? Like me, looking forward to a good dinner and a warming fire to dry out, I should wager.'

‘The pull of the convivial old country inn is very strong,' I laughed. ‘Yes, I'm ravenous. Can you recommend a hostelry in Great Melchett where we can get a bed and board for the night, Clayborne?'

‘The Duck and Drake is a warm and hospitable inn. They offer bed and breakfast and can knock you up a good meal at short notice. Isaiah Hooper is the landlord.'

Calm as anything, Clayborne drew back a blanket of old sacking and Holmes and myself were confronted with a body much mutilated and torn about. My training as a doctor saw me in good stead, for a strong stomach is required on such occasions. The torso bore a distinctive tattoo – a “hawk in flight” – across the broad chest which offered the best likelihood of identifying the victim, we surmised.

‘The body parts were found where exactly, inspector?' asked Holmes, inquisitively.

The detective, wearing his gum boots, indicated to the island in the middle of the channel, as if floating in reeds. ‘A local wildfowler by the name of Hobtree, lurking hereabouts with his punt and gun, often uses the island as a useful vantage for bagging ducks. Upon scrambling up the bank partly concealed by rushes, he came across the remains. He is a local man and by the distinctive tattoo on the torso realised at once the body belonged to his compatriot Frank Peters, who is often at this time of year to be found eel-catching, setting up his baskets and periodically checking the contents, else baiting the pots.'

‘Capital! Observe, Watson, the overturned coracle clogged in the shallows. The island, you say – so the poor fellow was tipped out of the coracle and dragged across the space of water into the reeds. That would certainly require a strong swimmer.'

‘A swimmer of unique muscular characteristics, sir. The current is very strong – deceptively so.'

‘The channel must have been fearfully cold at this time of year?'

‘Yes, a hardy swimmer, someone who managed to get that body –
for the victim was not a small man either, of light stature but well built and weighing in at I should say fourteen stone
– across the stretch of water, up the bank and, in what must surely have been an unstoppable frenzy, killed Peters and fled the scene.'

‘By a punt or a coracle, I wonder? A row boat? The first Norfolk murder, if my memory serves me correctly, and I am recalling its geographical location from an article that appeared in last Thursday's edition of the Telegraph, occurred further along the bank where there exists a reed-thatched barn, more towards Dunham St Paul.'

‘That is correct. The headless body of George Flemps was found close by. But still we cannot fathom the physical nature of the perpetrator of that heinous crime.'

‘You infer an animal of some kind. Come now, Inspector Wells, we are in East Anglia – not the plains of Africa. No man-eating tigers or leopards in this neck of the woods. Nor is there, according to my pocket map, which I minutely consulted on our journey up here from King's Cross, any private sanctuary or public zoo in the vicinity of the Broads. Pray, what creature could have been large enough to inflict such injuries – a water rat, a vole, a mink! That really is a tiresome supposition. Might I venture to confirm – we are looking for a frenzied madman, a lunatic, someone driven by an abiding hatred for humanity. You know, such people do exist, Wells, and it is our job to hunt them down. I should like to amble across to the windmill and examine the location. Watson, be a good fellow and retrieve my tape measure and tweezers from your bag, old man. Still pining for a good dinner? Well, we shall soon be done with our sleuth-hounding for the day. The light is starting to fade anyhow. See, the constables are gathering up poor Peters' remains on a stretcher. Clayborne, I see you're finished with the corpse for now and must be damned anxious to make an autopsy at Walpole St Thomas where the inquiry is based. Would you care to accompany us across to the windmill while there is still light?'

‘I should be honoured, Mr Holmes. Your being here in Norfolk has certainly livened up the local force no end. My own findings at present would concur with your lunatic theory. Who else could, with such physical strength and determination, swim across a strong current, dragging a body through the water during a particularly wet autumn which has seen severe flooding in these parts?'

‘Just so. Now we shall make a closer inspection of the building. Your brandy flask, Clayborne, I have need of fire in my belly for I'm chilled to the bone. My clothes are soaked through. A tipple for each of us is prerequisite to our foray across to that old windmill. Hello! What's this?' My colleague's hawklike features broke into a scowl. ‘Watson, you know my methods. Pray, what do you discern upon the path?'

‘Holes, like the stumps of a wicket would make.'

‘The marks of a walking stick, old fellow, the ferrule embedded quite deeply in the giving ground of Potters Ditch – evenly spaced. Clayborne, I observed no police activity in this area. The muddy path is relatively undisturbed, is it not?'

‘Agreed. I noticed the police sergeant wander over here earlier but he possessed no staff or stout walking stick, or cane to lean on.'

‘Traces of the ferrule's point appear to lead from the direction of the windmill and all of a sudden cease. Of course, a harmless rambler cannot be ruled out. No signs of the paw marks of a dog in tow though. We shall stroll across to that windmill, then it's dinner and early to bed at the Duck and Drake.'

The mill was not of a wooden post construction, but rather a tapering brick tower with a tiny framed window uppermost. Holmes's keen eye settled on the entrance door which had recently been defaced. The rain was falling hard and causing the ground to become even more muddy and waterlogged.

‘This graffiti is recent. Observe the way in which the wood has been whittled away by the blade of a sharp penknife, the impromptu carving exposing the lighter grain beneath. It purports to show the image of a large rodent. A penknife or chisel has been diligently employed, and the artistry is really quite clever. What say you, Watson?'

‘I am in full agreement, Holmes,' said I. ‘This is no mere childish scratching by a bored youth.'

Inspector Wells, after supervising the removal of the body to a farm wagon for transportation to the village hall at Walpole St Thomas, had come over to join us.

‘A rat. You know, gentlemen, there has been a spate of graffiti recently. The last week or so “Ratty” has been appearing everywhere, from telegraph poles to front doors to defaced headstones. The local constable is being inundated with complaints, but no one is able to apprehend the rascal because this unconventional artist comes “as a thief in the night”, as the Good Book says.'

‘Be that as it may, Inspector Wells, I believe you should be aware that our murderer is possibly someone who uses a thin walking stick with a half-inch diameter ferrule. The marks appear to spread out along the path, leading away from the windmill, ceasing abruptly some ten yards or so distant from the edge of the reed bank.'