The Death Chamber (16 page)

From all this it’s a reasonable assumption that Bart had a working knowledge of the early kinotoscope machines, although rumours that after the Great Partridge Catastrophe he took to
peddling sly peep-shows in the style of ‘What the Butler Saw,’ or ‘The Widow Jones’s Kiss’ cannot be authenticated. We are, however, on firmer ground with the
indecency charge in Brighton in 1924, since some of the court records are still extant.

The Partridges would have taken steps to guard against accusations of fakery, and Bartlam, certainly, was sharp enough to pretend fear at times. It seems he was also sufficiently twisty-minded
to keep some of his tricks from Violette in order to ensure a genuine reaction from her. In a fragment of a letter sent in later life by Violette to a friend, she says of Bart, ‘I never knew
what he might have in store for the evening; more than once I was so startled by his inventions that I all but swooned.’

Trickery on trickery. Deceit on deceit. And yet, and yet.

Is it conceivable that these two occasionally tapped into something they did not expect and could not explain? Something that owed nothing to the machinations of early cinema or photography, or
to the clackety-rapping of metal against wood? The accounts that have survived indicate complete belief on the part of the people who went to the North London house, and also complete devotion. One
lady who apparently sought a dead sister, wrote to a cousin that, ‘Henry and I are resolved that if we can help Violette and Bartlam by selling our house, we shall do so. It should fetch a
very good price, and I am sure we could find for ourselves a modest flat.’

The clients believed. The clients paid – or allowed themselves to be fleeced, depending on your point of view. Many of them were clearly intelligent, worldly-wise people, and it could be
argued that they ought to have been able to spot the wolves in partridge’s clothing. But they were almost all affected by deep grief, these trusting lambs. How objective were they?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Vincent bustled up to the top floor of Caradoc House partway through the morning, taking a cup of freshly brewed coffee for Miss Grey. He had put on a new shirt in a deep
raspberry, which was not a colour many people could carry off, and he was wearing it open-necked, which made him feel pleasantly modern. He had been careful to carry up a cup of coffee for himself
so he could drink it with Miss Grey and hear how she was getting along, and what she had found so far.

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing a floppy shirt and jeans. Her hair was bundled up into a big tortoiseshell clip and strands had escaped to curl light brown tendrils around her
neck. Of course it was sensible to wear old clothes when you were sorting through dusty papers and to tie long hair on top of your head. Mother had never done any kind of dusty work, but she had
occasionally worn what she called a tea-apron if she had baked scones for one of her bridge afternoons or when she dusted the china figures in the cabinets.

Miss Grey seemed pleased at being brought the coffee and said she was finding the contents of the deed boxes quite interesting. There was a lot more to sift than she had expected – sheaves
of papers had been stuffed into envelopes, and she was trying to sort them into appropriate headings. So far she had made three categories, starting with personal items – things like old
theatre programmes or receipts.

‘How interesting,’ said Vincent.

‘There are a few photos after all, but I don’t think any of them are of Walter. I think they’re just local places, or people he worked with at Calvary or who he met while he
lived here. There are a few letters from other doctors – oh, and one or two requests for lectures. It sounds as if Walter became quite eminent after he left Thornbeck. I’ve put those in
the second category – professional correspondence.’

Vincent asked what the third heading was.

‘Strictly medical. Several editions of old medical journals. I wondered if there were any medical libraries who’d like to have them – for details about treatments that were in
vogue in the thirties and forties. And there are a few records of patients – notes of treatments and medication prescribed. I should think they got in by mistake.’

‘Patients from Calvary?’

‘Not so far. There’s a reference to a house in Switzerland – it looks as if Walter bought it. Oh, and I found an article about the Caradoc Society which I thought you might
like. I put it over there on the table for you. It’s from the local paper. It mentions Lady Caradoc – I hadn’t realized she was involved with the Society.’

‘She was very much involved,’ said Vincent, picking up the article and glancing at it. ‘Her son was killed in the First World War and the story is that she never got over it.
Apparently she spent the rest of her life trying to contact him through various mediums and spiritualists.’

‘How sad.’

‘The seances and spiritualists would have given her a good deal of comfort, of course.’ Vincent said this with a touch of reproof, because it would not hurt to remind this modern
young woman of the Caradoc Society’s raison d’être. ‘It’s always been generally believed it was really Lady Caradoc’s influence that caused the Caradoc Society
to be created, but at the end of the First World War ladies didn’t have much equality so it was Sir Lewis who actually set things up. Georgina, if there is anything else that relates to the
Society, I’d very much like to see it. Even though things are being wound up. My articles, you know . . . One is always looking for new material.’

‘Of course you can have anything I find,’ said Georgina. ‘I’ll probably finish sorting it all out later today. D’you think I could stay on for another couple of
days, though? I suppose strictly speaking I can just take everything back to London, but it’s so nice up here, and I’d like to find out as much as I could about my great-grandfather.
That local newspaper’s still going, isn’t it? I thought I’d see if I could look at their archives. Walter might have been involved in all kinds of things.’

‘You’d be most welcome to stay,’ said Vincent. ‘This house isn’t actually on the market yet, and even if it was we could arrange viewings so as not to disturb you.
Is there much more to sort through?’

‘There are still these envelopes,’ said Georgina, indicating them. ‘Jam-packed, as you can see. Most of the stuff in them seems to date from the late 1930s. That was when
Walter was at Calvary, wasn’t it? So they might yield all kinds of local information for your articles.’

‘Indeed they might,’ said Vincent feeling as if a steely hand had clutched at his stomach. Late 1930s. But he said, quite lightly, that he would leave her to her delvings.
‘You’ll probably have a more interesting afternoon than I will. I’m bound for a dull hour with the Society’s accountants.’

‘That does sound dull,’ said Georgina, smiling.

Back in his own part of Caradoc House, the words, ‘late 1930s’ beat a horrid tattoo in Vincent’s mind. The dangerous years. Walter Kane’s Calvary years.
The years that must at all costs be kept hidden.

Until today Vincent had been thinking he would be able to find a way of destroying the contents of the boxes. It was annoying. If only he had known of their existence earlier he could have
staged some kind of break-in at Small’s offices – even a fire – but he could not start a fire inside Caradoc House; some of the Society’s valuable archives might be damaged
or lost altogether. And this morning’s conversation seemed to indicate that the problem might go deeper than merely destroying Walter’s papers.

He thought back over the conversation and to how Georgina Grey had declined all offers of help in the sorting of Walter Kane’s papers. Was there anything suspicious about that? She had
made it politely clear she wanted to deal with them on her own, and twice at least she had seemed to pause before answering a direct question about her findings. Had she been thinking up a good
lie? Working out how to put Vincent off the scent of something? If so, what? As he bustled about his office, Vincent began to see that it was not Walter Kane’s papers that would have to be
got rid of: it was Walter Kane’s great-granddaughter.

As soon as the thought formed, he knew it had been lying under the surface all the time, like a basking shark. Get rid of her. Get rid of this modern confident girl who might drag the shameful
past into the light, and who might as a result spoil Vincent’s nice, ordered life and his standing in Thornbeck.
Get rid of her
. But how could he do that?
How?
And then
– inevitably – what would Mother have done faced with Georgina Grey?

Mother had always said a plan could be worked out for any eventuality in life: the only thing to beware of, she said, was getting caught. Vincent could almost hear her saying this, and he could
see how she used to look when she said it. He never remembered her as the pale sad creature she had been just before she died; he always remembered her as radiant and glowing and beautiful.

Exactly the way she used to look when she came back from murdering one of her lovers.

She had not called them lovers, of course; it was not a word she would have dreamed of using – it was certainly not a word that would have been used when she was a girl.
They had been gentlemen friends, escorts, Mr Somebody who advises me on investments, Major Something who accompanies me to concerts. There had been a major in Bournemouth where they had lived until
Vincent was eight – a widower, rather friendless, very polite and respectful. He called Vincent’s mother Mrs Meade, and he called Vincent, young sprog. In private, Mother said he was a
bit of a bore but it was a kindness to befriend him.

The Bournemouth major had a big house in what was called the Avenue, and they went to afternoon tea there on Sundays. There were unfamiliar sandwiches and seed cake, and Mother and the major
drank tea, and a little later on, Mother had a glass of sherry and the major had a whisky and soda. Vincent was given ginger beer which he did not much like, but the major was not very used to
children and ginger beer was what he had had himself when he was a child.

Despite being boring and giving people seed cake and ginger beer, Vincent thought it sad when the Bournemouth major died. It happened one spring evening. Vincent had been going to his friend
John’s house straight from school; they would have tea there, and after homework they would spend the evening playing with John’s Meccano set. Vincent had looked forward to it, because
there were always extra-good cakes.

But when they got to the house the doctor had just called and it seemed that John’s sister had whooping cough.

‘It’s a nasty thing to get,’ his mother said. ‘So we’d better not even risk you coming in, Vincent. Shall I telephone your mother to collect you?’

But Vincent said no, he would go home by himself, thank you. It was not very far, and if he went past the park he would not have to cross any roads. John’s mother, who was distracted with
whooping cough and a small baby who was yelling its head off, supposed this would be all right, but said he was to telephone them to let them know he had got home safely, was that clear?

‘Oh, yes. Thank you very much,’ said Vincent, and she went back into the house thinking what a nice-mannered boy and how sad for his mother to be a widow so young.

Vincent walked back to his own house, enjoying the small adventure of being out alone, which was not something that was normally allowed. It was not very far to walk and Mother would surely not
mind.

It was slightly disconcerting to find the house locked up with no sign of his mother anywhere. Vincent tried all the doors and peered through the windows, and then sat down on the doorstep and
tried to think what to do. It was getting a bit chilly to wait out here for any length of time and it would soon start to get dark. He did not want to go to any of the neighbours’ houses,
because Mother did not approve of being too friendly with neighbours. They could become familiar, she said, and it did not do to let everyone know your business. But the major was a different kind
of friend and Vincent thought he could walk back to the Avenue and ask the major what he had better do. The major might know where Mother was or she might even be there with him. He set off.

It was already beginning to grow dark and there were lights on in some of the houses in the Avenue. There was a light on in the major’s house as well, which was reassuring. But when
Vincent knocked on the door the major did not appear, so after a moment he went round the side of the house to the scullery door and knocked a bit harder. Nothing. Perhaps the major was listening
to the radio in his study and had not heard the knocking, or perhaps he had gone out somewhere and left the light on by mistake. Greatly daring, Vincent tried the door. It was not locked, it opened
easily and he stepped inside.

He knew at once that the house was not empty, in the way you always did know. He called out a bit timidly, hoping the major would hear and call out one of his bluff greetings, but he did not.
Vincent went cautiously through the scullery which smelled of Vim and into the breakfast room beyond which smelled of stored apples from the major’s fruit trees. He stepped into the big hall
with the black and white tiled floor and the dark-leaved plants in their brass pots. Everywhere was quite dim except for a light showing under the study door. As Vincent hesitated, there was a
sound from the study. The floor creaked as if someone had walked across it and there was the chink of glasses.