The Black Seraphim
The Black Seraphim
First published in 1984
© Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1984-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
| | EAN | | ISBN | | Edition | |
| | 0755105281 | | 9780755105281 | | Print | |
| | 0755131770 | | 9780755131778 | | Kindle | |
| | 0755132149 | | 9780755132140 | | Epub | |
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel
‘Death in Captivity’
in 1952.
After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.
HRF Keating stated that
‘Smallbone Deceased’
was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published.
"The plot,"
wrote Keating, "
is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings."
It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.
Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London:
"I always take a latish train to work," he explained in 1980, "and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.".
After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for
‘The Daily Telegraph’
, as well as editing
‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’
.
Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.
Michael Gilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and their two sons and five daughters.
Modern science has convinced us that nothing that is obvious is true, and that everything that is magical, improbable, extraordinary, gigantic, microscopic, heartless, or outrageous is scientific.
George Bernard Shaw,
From his Preface to
Saint Joan
When Dr James Pirie Scotland fainted, he did so in the most dramatic manner, at the conclusion of a lecture on Morbid Anatomy which he was giving to the students of Guy’s Hospital. He tumbled off the edge of the rostrum and hit his head on a gallows from which was hanging a fully articulated skeleton.
Twenty medical students, faced with a problem to which there was no answer in their books, proceeded to suggest twenty different courses of action, mostly inappropriate. Fortunately, one of them had the sense to summon the sister on duty, who packed Dr Scotland off to the nearest private ward.
By the time she had got him there, he had more or less recovered and felt deeply ashamed of himself. Sister Lewthwaite was firm. She said, “That’s a nasty cut in your head. It’ll need stitches. I’ll get the houseman to look at it.”
Dr Scotland put his feet on the floor and said, “Really, Sister. Absolutely stupid of me.” He tried to stand up and sat down again abruptly.
“As I thought,” said Sister Lewthwaite. “Concussion. If you’re going to be sick, the basin’s under the bed.”
In the end it was the Medical Registrar who pronounced the verdict. He said: “There’s nothing organically wrong with you, James. Nature is presenting the bill for six years of overwork. What you need is a month’s holiday. Somewhere right away from all this.” He dismissed, with a wave of his hand, the grimy stones of South London, which were baking under the September sun. “The isles of Greece, or the mountains of Kashmir. Or if you can’t afford that, a cottage in the wildest part of Dartmoor.”
“I don’t know that I can afford even that,” said James sadly. “But I’ll think of something.”
It
had
been a hard six years; made harder by an almost complete lack of money. His mother, who had been widowed when James was six, had once said to him: “Other people have money. The Scotlands have to get by on brains.” And so it had been. A good Secondary Modern School, which had allowed him to specialise in physics, chemistry and biology, followed by a scholarship at Oxford. At the end of his first year, at his tutor’s suggestion, he had transferred to the medical school. Here he had discovered a sense of vocation and had worked very hard indeed, winning both the Beaney Prize and the Gull Exhibition in pathology. During his year as a houseman he had continued to read; savage, solitary evenings bent over his books and papers while his contemporaries were drinking beer and making intermittently successful efforts to seduce the nurses.
By now the authorities had their eyes on this earnest young student. A junior registrarship in the Pathology Department had been his for the asking. He had combined the job with tutorial work.
His next move had been to the Poisons Reference Section at New Cross Hospital. Here he had spent a hard but happy year. Much of his time had been spent in considering the toxic properties of everyday things. Of bleaching powders and almond oil and turpentine and white spirits; of the weedkillers and insecticides in people’s toolsheds, the kerosene and antifreeze in their garages, the foxglove and laburnum in their gardens, the yew trees and the nightshade in the hedges.
It was at about this time that he began to have bad nights.
In the earlier years, after a hard day’s work, sleep had dropped on him as soon as he had tumbled into bed. Now he seemed to have lost the knack. Sometimes tunes would be running in his head. Hymn tunes mostly. A verse would sing itself a dozen times over. When he went to sleep, the nightmares started. He seemed to be living in a world which was pitch black but shot through with occasional bursts of unwholesome brightness. It was in these bright intervals that he realised that the men and women who thronged about him were all evil. All of them. The half-smile on their faces when they handed you the cup or the glass indicated that they knew there was something unhealthy in it; but you had to drink. Then came the burning sensation in the mouth and throat and he would wake up, his heart beating double time and his forehead damp. Sometimes, but not often, he would be sick.
“At least a month,” said the Registrar. “Better two. We’ll call it sick leave. On one condition: You take no books with you.”
“I must have something to read.”
“Not detective stories, then. Too complicated. Straight thrillers, if you like. Cowboy stories. Romances. Or take up fishing. I’m told it’s very relaxing.”
When the Registrar got home that night and told his wife about it, she said, “He doesn’t need relaxing. He needs shaking up. I’m sure he’s a very worthy young man, but he’s dug himself a groove and buried himself in it. That’s all right when you’re fifty. Not when you’re twenty-four.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Something violent and different. You were lucky. You had that call-up in the Infantry.”
“Getting up at six o’clock, scrubbing greasy tabletops with cold water.”
“It broadened your mind.”
Her husband said, “Ugh.”
Meanwhile James had been doing some thinking.
In the empty twelve months between leaving school and starting at Oxford he had taken a temporary job teaching at the Choristers’ School at Melchester. He had chosen it because his cousin, Lawrence Consett, was headmaster. James had found that he enjoyed teaching, as a change from being taught; and Latin and French and history as a change from physics and chemistry.
“Put you up for a month?” said Lawrence. “No difficulty. To start with, you can share the school cottage with Peter Fleming. You remember Peter? Furbank has broken his ankle, stupid fellow, and won’t be back until around the end of the month. After that, there are one or two people I can think of who’d be happy to give you a bed. Our Chapter Clerk – Henry Brookes – was telling me only the other day that he had a spare room now that his old aunt had popped off at last. You could make some arrangement with him for bed and breakfast and get your other meals out.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“It’ll be quiet, of course. But I gather that’s what you want.”
“Just what the doctor ordered,” said James.
The bishops wore cardboard mitres. The castles had straw hats with ribbons of red and black. The knights carried riding crops and the kings and queens had paper crowns.
