Michael Cox (39 page)

AFTER LEAVING MADAME Tussaud’s, we had returned to Grosvenor Square in order to rest for an hour before dinner.
I now had a most spacious and comfortable room on the second floor, overlooking the garden at the back of the house, and superior in every respect to the one I had occupied during our previous visit.
Having divested myself of my coat, hat, and boots, I was stretching out my aching feet before the fire, anticipating an hour of glorious solitude, when there was a knock at my door.
It was beaming Charlie Skinner, who had accompanied us, with Mr Pocock, from Evenwood.
‘Letter, miss,’ he said, in his usual soldierly manner, handing me an unfranked envelope.
‘Thank you, Charlie,’ I said, returning his salute. ‘And how are you finding London?’
‘Uncommon dirty, miss,’ he replied, before saluting me once more and marching off.
The envelope was addressed simply to ‘Miss Gorst’. Inside was a small square of blue paper, with a few lines written in a looping, backward-sloping hand:
DEAR MISS GORST,—
I take the liberty of informing you that my superior officer, Inspector Alfred Gully, has requested that I should accompany you, at a prudent distance, whenever you choose to leave G—Square alone, to ensure that no harm comes to you. This I am very honoured to do – & so send this note to ask if you wd be so kind as to step outside at yr convenience so that I may know you by sight, & you may know me. I am standing at the corner of Brook St & will remain on station here until you come.
I remain, Miss Gorst, yours very faithfully –
WHIFFEN SWANN (SERGEANT)
Mr Wraxall had been as good as his word; and so, with a weary sigh, I laced up my boots once more, threw on my coat and hat, and slipped downstairs to meet my new protector.

ON REACHING THE corner of Brook Street, I looked about for Sergeant Swann, but could see no one who might answer to the idea I had formed of him. A plain-clothes detective officer, as I thought, would have a natural unobtrusiveness about him. I had imagined a lean, darkly costumed, flexibly constituted person – attributes, as I conceived, that would enable him to insinuate himself invisibly into the narrow places of life. But there was no one I could see who met my preconceived notion of Sergeant Whiffen Swann. Indeed, there was no one at all, for it was bitterly cold, with a dense fog coming down, and all sensible people were indoors, their chairs drawn up close to their fires, as I should have been.
I continued to walk up and down for several more minutes, increasingly piqued at having been called out on such a night. I was about to return to the house when, out of the foggy shadows, stepped a short, stocky, bespectacled individual dressed in a bright-yellow checked Inverness, of extravagant conspicuousness, and a light-brown bowler hat.
‘Miss Gorst, I think?’
He had the deepest, gruffest voice I had ever heard, like the growl of a large and dyspeptic dog.
‘I am,’ I replied. ‘And you are?’
‘Sergeant Whiffen Swann, of the Detective Department, at your service, miss. I hope I find you well?’
‘Perfectly well, thank you, Sergeant Swann,’ I returned, ‘although a little cold and uncomfortable.’
‘You’re not used to it like I am, miss, that’s all.’
‘You are right, Sergeant,’ I said, emphatically, still feeling cross that he had kept me waiting, ‘I am
not
used to it.’
‘I had a reason, miss, for not making myself known to you straight away.’
His tight-lipped, censorious look rather alarmed me, and gave an entirely different idea of the sergeant’s character and competence. His sparse, pale beard and small eyes had at first suggested a man of rather colourless and inoffensive temperament; now a hard and dogged vigour flared quietly behind the misted glass of his spectacles.
‘You were followed, miss, as you left the house. Tall, thin party, clean shaven, around forty years of age, large ears, top of index finger on left hand missing, slight limp. Familiar to you, miss?’
‘Most certainly not,’ I replied, looking nervously about me.
‘Thought not,’ said Sergeant Swann with a sniff.
‘He followed me, you say?’
‘Not a doubt of it.’
‘Where is he now?’ I asked.
Sergeant Swann beckoned me away from the light of the street-lamp under which I had been standing to join him in an area of shadow.
‘He’s just over there, miss. He’d like to have a word with you, if you wouldn’t mind, at your earliest convenience.’
Astonishment briefly robbed me of speech. Naturally, I said that I had no wish to meet the stranger, under any circumstance, and requested Sergeant Swann to escort me back to the house straight away.
‘I shall of course accompany you, miss,’ he said, ‘as I’ve been instructed to do by Inspector Gully; but – if you’ll forgive a little presumption on my part – perhaps I might suggest that you reconsider, and send me over to propose a suitable time and place to meet this person. You wouldn’t be alone, you know. I’d be there with you, every second. Your safety would be assured, have no fear. I’m not a man to be trifled with, when push comes to shove.’
‘But why should I agree to meet a complete stranger?’ I asked, more confused and anxious than ever.
‘Because I believe it might be to your advantage, miss,’ replied Sergeant Swann. ‘I’ve had several conversations with Inspector Gully, on various matters connected with your good self; and, besides, I know who the man is.’
‘You know him?’
‘Most certainly. His name is Conrad Kraus.’

25

A Lingering Scent of Violets

I
Sergeant Swann Takes Notes

A
T NINE
o’clock the next morning, by arrangement, I found myself in the Castle and Falcon Hotel, St Martin’s le Grand, Aldersgate.
Two communications had been delivered to me by Charlie Skinner, just as I was going down to breakfast.
The first was from Mr Wraxall, who had been informed by Inspector Gully of my encounter with Sergeant Swann the previous evening.
‘Here’s a most unexpected, and undoubtedly important, development,’ he wrote, ‘and I’m gratified – although not at all surprised – that you’ve bravely consented to meet Mr K. You will be quite safe in Sergeant S’s hands – he is one of Gully’s best men. So God speed, my dear. I am agog to hear from you further.’
The second note, from Mrs Ridpath, confirmed that she would be pleased to see me later that morning in Devonshire Street, as I had requested.
Emily had been required to attend her solicitor, Mr Donald Orr, that morning, and we were not due to resume our itinerary of activities until after luncheon. At a little before half past eight, I slipped unseen out of the house.

SERGEANT SWANN WAS waiting on the corner of the Square. He made no attempt to acknowledge me, but remained a few yards at my back as I set off towards the hotel in Aldersgate that he had suggested for my appointment with the son of the murdered Mrs Kraus.
We found him sitting in the corner of the empty tap-room, staring vacantly out of the grimy window. He was tall and spare, with a yellowish, underfed look about him; something in the set of his shoulders, and his large hands, spoke of a once strong and robust constitution now reduced almost to frailty by sustained deprivation and misfortune.
Sergeant Swann had judged – or more likely knew – him to be around forty years of age, but he had a curiously juvenile face, and could easily have passed for a man who had lived only half as long, if he had had the benefit of a good wash, a visit to the barber’s, several substantial meals, and clean linen.
The sergeant preceded me into the tap-room to speak a few words to the man; then he signalled for me to join them at the table.
‘Will you take some refreshment, Miss Gorst?’ he asked.
I thanked him, but said that I would prefer to conclude our business as quickly as possible.
‘Very well, miss,’ said the sergeant. ‘You won’t mind if I make notes, I’m sure.’
Whereupon he took out a black leather note-book, which he placed open on the table at an empty page, produced a pencil from the inside pocket of his Inverness, and looked expectantly, first at me, and then at Mr Kraus. After a moment or two’s silence, he laid his pencil down impatiently, and fixed a disapproving eye on the latter.
‘Now then, Conrad,’ he growled, ‘we’re here at your request, so you’d better tell us why. Miss Gorst hasn’t got all day – and neither have I.’
Ignoring the sergeant, Conrad laid a dirty hand on the table, and began to trace a pattern of invisible whorls.
‘If you wouldn’t mind, Mr Kraus,’ I said, gently.
He looked up and gave me such a forlorn and piteous look, like a frightened child who knows he must do something that he is most unwilling to do, for fear of chastisement, that my heart almost broke.
‘You’re so very like ’er, miss.’
He turned his head away to stare out of the window again. A cold, thin rain was falling, sending little snaky streams of soot and grime trickling down the glass.
‘Whom do I look like, Mr Kraus?’ I asked, as the sergeant began to write in his note-book.
‘The lady. Miss Carteret.’
‘Do you mean Lady Tansor, Conrad – may I call you Conrad?’
He looked at me for a moment as if trying to remember something, and then nodded.
‘And how did you know Miss Carteret, as Lady Tansor then was? Can you tell me?’
My heart was beating faster as I put the question, sensing that this poor inarticulate creature might possess the means to lay bare the reason for his mother’s murder.
‘When Muvver and me went wiv ’er on the boat,’ he said. ‘I liked the boat, but not the coaches. We went a long way on the coaches. They made me sick.’
‘And where did the coaches take you, Conrad?’ I asked.
‘Muvver said it were a place called Carlsbad. Where Grandpa lived.’
Sergeant Swann, continuing to write, gave me a knowing nudge, intended, I believe, to communicate that he regarded this piece of information as opening up a promising new line of enquiry.
I then asked Conrad why they had gone to Carlsbad. He said that he did not know, but that Miss Carteret had given his mother money to look after her.
‘And a pretty dress,’ he added. ‘Muvver liked pretty dresses. You’ve got a pretty dress on, miss. Muvver would’ve liked it.’
‘What did you do in Carlsbad, Conrad?’ was my next question; but he only shook his head, and returned to his tracing. Then I thought of another question.
‘What about the colonel? Colonel Zaluski. Was he with you in Carlsbad?’
At this prompting, Conrad looked up and nodded once more.
‘The colonel – yes. That’s where she found ’im. In Carlsbad.’
‘What do you mean, “found him”? Had she been looking for him?’
‘Muvver said she was lookin’ for someone – I don’t know what for. And then one night she found the colonel, and after that ’e stayed wiv us, when we went on more coaches. But then she weren’t Miss Carteret no more.’
‘You mean she married him?’ I asked.
Another nod.
‘But we already know that, Conrad. There must be something else you want of me. What is it?’
He did not reply, only stared blankly at the table-top.
Sergeant Swann now began to display distinct signs of restiveness, shifting in his chair, and stamping his boot on the wooden floor.
‘Come along now, Conrad,’ he said, his voice descending to a threatening rumble, like the sound of distant thunder. ‘Spit it all out. What did you want to say to Miss Gorst?’
‘I don’t want to say nuffink. I jus’ want it back,’ retorted Conrad, with sudden vehemence.
‘What do you want back?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Speak up, man.’
‘That will do, Sergeant,’ I remonstrated. ‘What would you like to have back, Conrad? I shall help you, if I can.’
‘The paper wiv ’er writin’ on it.’
‘And where do you think the paper has gone? Do you know?’
‘The man took it,’ he replied. ‘The tall man who came on my birfday to see Muvver, and they talked for a long time – ’e got it from Muvver, when she went out an’ never came back. But it were mine – it’s always been mine, though I couldn’t never read the words. It smelled of ’er. It always smelled of ’er. She told me to take it to the post office, but I didn’t. It smelled too nice. So I put it in my pocket, and never told anyone, not even Muvver. When we came home I ’id it in my room, and took it out every night, to remind me of Mrs Zaluski because she were so beautiful, like a queen in the stories Grandpa told me, though she was cruel to us. They thought I’d wanted to ’arm that girl in Franzenbad, but I didn’t – I only wanted to make friends wiv ’er. So Muvver and me ’ad to leave very quickly, in the night, and we didn’t ’ave enough money for coaches, so we ’ad to walk until Muvver got some money to take us home at last.’
‘And so you kept the paper for a long time, did you?’ I asked him. ‘Until you were quite old?’
‘Yes, miss,’ Conrad replied. ‘Then Muvver found it. She were cross at first, but then she said I were a good boy to ’ave kept it all that time, for it’d be very useful to us, and that we could use it to pay Mrs Turripper for our lodgings. I didn’t understand, for it weren’t money, only paper that smelled of Mrs Zaluski. But Muvver said that it were as good as money to us.
‘Then the man came, the tall man wiv the stick, and she gave it to ’im, but ’e had ’er put in the river. I knows it, true as true can be. She said ’e were an old friend, but I knows ’e weren’t. I ’ate the man wiv the stick. ’Ate him! ’Ate him! ’E took the paper, then ’e took Muvver.’
A tense pause followed, as Conrad traced several more whorls on the table.
‘So I wants it back, miss,’ he said, suddenly looking up, with a pathetically imploring expression in his sad eyes. ‘The paper, wiv ’er smell on it, ’er lovely smell. Muvver said it were violets. That’s what I wants. I fink the man wiv the stick must’ve wanted it so ’e could give it back to Mrs Zaluski. That’s what I fink. Are you ’er daughter, miss? You can get it for me if you are, though you don’t have ’er name. Why’s that? Or you can get me another paper, if it smells the same. It ’as to smell the same. Say you will, miss!’
He sat back and closed his eyes, as if it had cost him great effort to speak so many words.
‘Conrad, look at me. Will you do that for me?’
He slowly did as I had asked. I saw then what beautiful eyes he had. They were of the softest, deepest brown, like Mr Randolph’s, with long dark lashes, and gave out such a depth of sad longing that tears began to form in my own.
‘I’m not her daughter, Conrad,’ I said, ‘and I don’t know where your paper is. But if it can be found, then I’m sure you can have it back.’
‘Fank you, miss,’ he said. ‘But now I don’t know who you are. Why is everyfink a puzzle to me?’
Another pause, during which the sergeant finished composing his notes, and replaced the little leather note-book in the pocket of his cape.
‘One more question, Conrad,’ I said as I was about to go. ‘You said that your mother went to meet the man who took your paper on your birthday. When was that? Do you know the date?’
Sergeant Swann hurriedly took out his note-book once more.
‘Fifteen days after September starts,’ said Conrad, with a most touchingly confident air. ‘I allus remember that. Muvver used to tell me when I should start counting, for I can count all the way to fifty, though I don’t know my letters.’
‘And was this birthday the last one you had?’
He gave me one of his assenting nods.
‘And just tell me again, Conrad.’ I gave him an encouraging smile. ‘Whom did your mother give the paper to?’
‘I’ve told you,’ he said, turning his face towards the window as he spoke. ‘The tall man wiv the stick. And a big moustache.’