Give the Devil His Due (42 page)

“They were planning to kill me!” Rowland protested, struggling to remove his mask.

The coven laughed. “Nonsense!” the unmasked wolf declared. “It's all part of the ritual, that's all. The young fella's just taken it all too seriously.”

“Who are you?” the constable demanded.

“Thaddeus Magdalene. I'm the proprietor of this establishment. This young man,” he nodded at Rowland, “is Alan Smith, the newest initiate to our little… club.”

“The panels in this room are false,” Rowland said, finally yanking loose the mask. “This is a bookmakers' den.”

The silence was stunned and momentary. Then the cat lunged for Rowland. “Why you lying bastard!” Free to defend himself this time, Rowland punched the hooded man.

A scramble and two constables pulled both men apart.

Delaney appeared at the doorway. “Rowly?” he said staring. “What on earth's going on here?” He didn't wait for Rowland to reply, assuming control of the scene. “Take Mr. Sinclair downstairs while I speak with Mr. Magdalene and inspect these premises a little more thoroughly,” Delaney ordered. “I'll interview Sinclair once we ascertain what exactly is in this room.”

“They killed White,” Rowland told Delaney quietly as he was escorted past. “They told me.”

In the first exhibit room Rowland was reunited with his friends. Edna threw her arms around him and embraced him tightly. “Thank goodness you're all right.”

“We went to the police as soon as we spotted the flaming menagerie go in. They thought we were drunk,” Clyde said as he shook Rowland's hand. “Milton made a scene and they telephoned Delaney at home in the end.”

“Where's Flynn?” Rowland asked, looking for the actor.

“He's gone back to the car to release Beejling. We had to tie the poor man up to prevent him going to the police as soon as you didn't come out of Magdalene's.”

Rowland grimaced. He'd completely forgotten about Beejling.

“What happened?” Edna asked noting the blood on his lip. “What did they do to you?”

Rowland filled them in.

“I'm confused,” Milton said. “Are they bookies or occultists?” “I'm rather confused myself, but I think they're probably bookmakers pretending to be Satanists to scare people into staying clear.”

“But they killed White.”

“That's what they said.”

“But why?”

“Perhaps he discovered they were running a bookmakers' operation.”

They waited over an hour before Delaney came down. The coven members who had not escaped via the windows were escorted through in handcuffs first, some still clad in masks. They shouted abuse and threats at Rowland Sinclair as they were led past.

Delaney shook his head as he lit a cigarette. “More enemies, Rowly?” He sighed. “Come on, I'd best take your statement.”

They used the upstairs office rather than go back to the station where the coven was being processed. Rowland gave his account of what happened.

“Once they knew the jig was up, they confessed that the occult business was a ruse to disguise the bookmakers' shop,” Delaney said. “Apparently they scared the last chap who accidentally discovered them into taking holy orders, so they thought they could do the same with you, or alternatively make you think you'd been initiated into the coven to procure your silence. They claim to use the daggers for opening letters and deny any intention of murdering you.”

“That's not the impression I got. What about White?”

“They say they took credit for that to scare you.”

“How did they recognise me?”

“They've been taking bets on the race—that Red Cross motor marathon. Your picture's been in the papers. Magdalene wants you charged with breaking and entering.”

“I didn't break and enter. I got locked in.”

Delaney tapped the side of his nose. “And that's the story I'm sticking to.”

“Do they know anything at all about White's murder?”

“They say not.”

“It seems an awful coincidence.”

“You think White's death was some kind of ritual sacrifice?” Delaney asked.

Rowland considered it. “No,” he said in the end. “There was nothing ritualistic about White's murder—no mask, he was fully dressed and he was in the wrong room, unless the Greek Room has an altar?”

“It doesn't,” Delaney confirmed. He consulted his watch. “I don't suppose you want to have a look at it?”

Rowland shrugged. “That would be easier than getting myself locked in again I suppose.”

The Greek Room was much smaller than it appeared in the crime scene photographs but the exhibits were the same: Spartan warriors, the Minotaur, Medusa, an Egyptian pharaoh and Pan. They were as Daisy Forster had described them: nothing particularly spectacular. And of course the pharaoh wasn't Greek, but that point was probably irrelevant to the fact that Crispin White was murdered here.

Rowland's eyes fell once again on the wiring Edna had noticed in the photographs. He knew exactly what they were now: telephone cables. The Greek Room was directly below the altar room where he'd found the illicit bookmakers' shop. Perhaps White too had realised what the wires were and sniffed out the bookmakers like the newshound he was. There had been a reference to the Kings Cross coven in his notebook.

Delaney nodded his agreement. “I think it was an astute move to conceal that you knew what they were up to.”

“Look Colin, I didn't really get a look at all those jokers. Were any of them…?”

“Wombat Newgate.”

Rowland tensed. “So Stuart Jones might be involved with this lot, too?”

“He wasn't here, Rowly, but rest assured we will question Newgate vigorously. We'll find out if this is connected to what happened to Miss Higgins.”

“Which mask was he wearing?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Which mask was Wombat wearing? Which one was he?”

“The clown. Why?”

“The bear's voice was familiar.”

“Are you sure it wasn't a clown?”

“No, definitely a bear. I didn't notice the clown. I might have been a good deal more unnerved if I had.”

“We didn't apprehend a bear.”

Rowland swore. “He must have been one of the chaps who jumped out the window.”

Delaney tapped a cigarette out of its case. “I'll have the boys keep an eye out for a bear in Kings Cross.”

Rowland smiled. “Also an owl and a couple of things that looked like parrots.”

Delaney groaned. “They'll think I've been drinking.” He checked his notebook as he recalled a promise, and found the relevant information. “The Bocquets' maid is called Frances Webb,” he said. “She lived in so we haven't got a current address.”

“Terrific,” Rowland replied, frustrated.

“I have a number of statements to take tonight so I'd best get back to the station. You go home, Rowly. I'll be in touch once I've sorted this mess out.”

Rowland offered the detective his hand. “Thank you, Colin.”

Delaney accepted the handshake. “You won't leave town, will you, old boy?”

When Rowland and his friends finally left the waxworks most of the police had already gone. Two constables had been left to guard the premises while the door the police had forced was insecure. They walked across the street to where the cars were parked near a streetlight and it was only then they noticed that three men awaited them.

Flynn and Beejling had, it seemed, joined forces to restrain a thin, ragged man against the bonnet of the Rolls Royce.

“What's going on here?” Rowland demanded.

Beejling replied, “This gentleman was interfering with your car, sir.”

“I weren't!” the man protested.

“You were crouched next to the wheels!” Flynn barked. “Getting ready to slash the tyres, no doubt. The bloody cheek!”

“I weren't!” the man said again.

“He doesn't have a knife,” Rowland pointed out.

“Empty your pockets,” Beejling instructed his prisoner.

Plunging his hands into his trousers, the man pulled out four thick sticks of chalk. “See, this is all I got.”

“What were you doing crouched next to the car, sir?” Edna asked gently.

The man looked frightened, trapped. His face seemed, at the moment, to be only startled eyes.

Rowland opened the trunk on the back of the Rolls Royce and found the torch Johnston always kept in there. He turned it on to inspect the front tyre beside which the man had reportedly been crouched. The beam caught a word chalked in meticulous copperplate on the footpath: “Eturnity.”

Rowland turned back to the man in the custody of Beejling and Flynn. “I'm Rowland Sinclair,” he said proffering his hand. “Pleased to meet you Mr…?”

“Stace,” the man said, warily shaking Rowland's hand. “Arthur Stace.”

“Did you write this, Mr. Stace?”

Stace said nothing.

“Why eternity?” Edna asked. “I've seen it written on footpaths and walls before around Kings Cross. Was it always you, Mr. Stace?”

Stace still appeared to be looking for an opportunity to run. “I like it. It's a good word. Folks need to think about God and how they're gonna spend eternity.”

Rowland was reminded then of Frank Marien's account of the man who returned White's notebook. “Do you always carry chalk in your pockets, Mr. Stace?”

“Most times.”

“Did you return a notebook to Frank Marien of
Smith's Weekly
?”

“I didn't steal it! That man threw it away.”

“Which man?”

Stace shook his head. “Dunno… a man.”

“Where was this, Mr. Stace?”

“He was coming out of Magdalene's. Had a key—locked the door.”

“What was he wearing?”

Stace looked at him blankly. “Clothes.”

“Nothing unusual?”

“No, just clothes.”

“And where exactly did this man throw the notebook?”

Stace shifted his weight, agitated. “He didn't 'xactly throw it. He was reading it as he walked out and he stumbled on the gutter and dropped it through the grate of the stormwater drain. Couldn't get it out. He swore a bit and left it. But I got it out.”

“Was there anyone with him?”

“Nope.”

Rowland reached into his jacket for his pocketbook. “I'm afraid we've detained and accused you unfairly Mr. Stace.” He pressed two pound notes into Stace's calloused hand. “Please accept this as some small compensation for the inconvenience and the affront.”

Stace put the notes in his pocket. “That'll purchase me a lot of chalk, Mr. Sinclair.”

“I hope it helps, Mr. Stace.”

“Do you write anything other than this word ‘eternity'?” Milton asked curiously.

“I don't know many other words. It's the only perfect word I know.” Beejling who had quite obviously been restraining himself, broke, and said stiffly, “My good man, you do realise it's usually spelled E-T
E
- R-N-I-T-Y?”

Stace's face fell. “I thought I'd written it right.”

“It's poetic licence,” Milton said. “I, for one, like the way you spelled it better.”

“No,” Stace said, distressed. “It's got to be right.”

Rowland found his notebook and pencil, and while his first impulse was to draw the furtive Arthur Stace—the wide anxious eyes, the startled stance, muscles tensed to flee—he instead wrote the word out in clear letters and tore out the page. “I like the way you spelled it, too, but if it's got to be correct…”

Stace accepted the page as gratefully as he had the two pounds. He turned to go and then paused. “You won't tell anybody 'bout me, will you? 'Bout me writing the word? It's not vandalism or nothin', I only use chalk.”

“Of course we'd never tell anyone, Mr. Stace,” Edna assured him, earnestly. “We promise.”

Stace tipped his battered hat. “Thank you, miss. I'm sorry if I startled you folks.” With that he departed, leaving them to contemplate the beautifully rendered misspelled word which seemed to illuminate the concrete footpath.