The Durham Deception (18 page)

‘What passes through your mind as you plunge through the dark air? Regret or elation or despair? The fall would not last much more than a second. Is it a long second, I wonder?'

Eustace Flask had relaxed for an instant but now began to think that he might be in the presence of a lunatic.

‘No doubt you consider this as idle speculation, sir,' said the man, as if he guessed Flask's thoughts. ‘But I have had good cause recently to imagine the last plunge from a bridge – then the immersion in dirty, fast-flowing water – the instinctive struggle to survive – the inexorable way in which one's garments become waterlogged and drag the wearer down. Even if you had willed yourself every step of the way thus far, do you think you would sink without a fight?'

‘Probably not,' said Flask.

The man shivered, though whether from the chill of the evening or the thought of a watery death, Flask did not know. He made to move off but the man put out a hand to detain him.

‘Not so fast, my friend. I saw you at the theatre this evening.'

‘I don't want to talk about that.'

‘You are not well disposed towards Major Marmont, I think?'

‘No.'

‘You would like revenge on him?'

Flask, normally so fluent, said nothing but that was answer enough for the man, ‘I could tell you things that might surprise you.'

The man might have been about to say more but they were interrupted by the sight of the beat constable at the eastern end of the bridge. He was standing under the gaslight, clearly visible and presumably a deterrent to any nefarious activity in the area.

‘But not now,' said the man. ‘Meet me tomorrow morning and I shall tell you more.'

‘Where?'

‘Here. At ten.'

He spun on his heel and loped across to the western side of the bridge. He passed under the pool of light from the gas lantern on that side and, for an instant, Flask thought of a predatory beast; there was something so silent and purposeful in his movement. Still, there could be no harm in meeting him again, could there?

Something had fluttered to the ground as the other man walked away. Flask picked it up. It felt like a handkerchief. He held it to his nose and detected the faintest trace of a woman's scent.

The Medium Departs

As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Eustace Flask came to light the next day. A band of workers were using saws and axes to cut up a fallen tree on the eastern bank of the river where it doubled back on the far side of the cathedral. Their overseer was alerted by the cries of a woman. With a couple of his companions, he followed the direction of the sounds. The three ran a couple of hundred yards or so along the bank and then up the wooded slope to a small clearing.

There lay the body of a man, face up. He had died violently and blood was welling from a deep wound on his neck. But, more shocking and surprising than this sight, was the presence of a woman standing close to the body. When she saw the men enter the clearing, her cries ceased and she began to shake. The woodman made to go towards her but one of his companions held him back. He said nothing but nodded towards the woman's hands, which she was holding out stiffly in front of her. They were bloody.

The overseer despatched the man to get help while he and the other worker kept a wary watch over the woman. After a time she seemed to realize the oddness of her posture. She let her hands drop to her sides. She made no move to run away but neither did the men come any closer. After a time – which seemed a very long time – there was the sound of whistles and police rattles and a constable came red-faced and panting into the clearing. Within moments others arrived, including a superintendent. Two of them approached the woman warily as if closing in on a wild horse.

‘I think you had better come with us, Miss,' said the superintendent.

‘It's Mrs,' said the woman. Her voice was high and unsteady.

‘You had still better to accompany us,' said the officer. He spoke quite gently. As he and a constable led the woman away out of the clearing, the others clustered about the body which would very soon be identified as that of Mr Eustace Flask.

The workmen had not been the only people in the vicinity of Flask's body. There were various other individuals on this eastern portion of the bank of the River Wear who had noted him (when alive), and responded in their various ways.

There was Septimus Sheridan, for example. He was not toiling away in the cathedral library this morning. Rather, he had been so wearied by dear Julia's harping on the subject of Eustace Flask that he decided to get some fresh air before burying himself in his ever-open books. He loved Miss Howlett with an undeclared love but even he could take only so much of her agitation over the wretched medium who had disappeared the previous evening at the Assembly Rooms. Good riddance to him! But from Julia there was a stream of questions and queries. What should they do about poor Mr Flask? Should they go to the police, for instance?

Septimus Sheridan noticed that the nice young couple felt the same way. Helen had become almost impatient with her aunt while her lawyer husband had quit the breakfast table as soon as possible to do some work. Eventually Septimus could stand it no longer. He left the house in South Bailey and rather than go the few hundred yards to the cathedral precincts he walked several times that distance, crossing the Elvet Bridge and turning south towards Church Street.

As he sometimes did when he felt weary or dispirited he went to St Oswald's Church which lay on a wooded bluff overlooking the river. It was not the church where Septimus had served as a curate during his time in Durham many years before but he liked St Oswald's for its extreme antiquity and its slightly forlorn air. He did not always go inside the church but contented himself with wandering off the flagstone paths and into the quiet of the graveyard. This was an overgrown place especially towards its western, river-facing fringe and Sheridan felt the long grass brush his trousers as he ducked under tree boughs and skirted the graves which poked lopsidedly through the soil. There was a ragged line of palings marking the church boundary and an unlocked gate on to a steep path which led to the riverside walk.

Septimus paused here and breathed deeply. The smells and noises of the town were drowned by the sound of birdsong and the scent of blossom. Dominating the tree-line on the far bank was the great eastern tower of the cathedral but from this aspect it was softened and framed by foliage and Septimus imagined that the scene could not have changed very greatly in almost a thousand years.

All those centuries ago an individual like Eustace Flask, with his cheap tricks and his claims to be in touch with the dead, would have been regarded as a witch. A warlock. A heretic. Flask would have been tried, convicted and summarily burnt at the stake. Septimus was not a violent man. He knew that he lived in a kinder, more enlightened age and he was thankful for it. But there was something to be said for those ancient forms of justice.

Septimus attempted to push such thoughts and imaginings out of his head. He distracted himself by listening to the birds. But the place was not so peaceful after all. From the wooded slope below came a crashing sound as of some animal forcing its way through the undergrowth. Septimus thought it must be a deer but a flash of bright, artificial colour – someone's jacket perhaps – showed that it was a person. The colour immediately stirred an unwelcome recollection in Septimus Sheridan and he waited to see the route taken by the intruder in the woods. After a time curiosity got the better of him and he pushed open the gate in the dilapidated fence and started to tread carefully on the downhill path.

Any observer in St Oswald's churchyard about a quarter of an hour later would have seen a rather stout man making his way at quite a lick through the long grass. More than once the man stumbled over a low-lying grave before he reached the flagged path which led to Church Street. An observer would also have heard a woman's screams coming from the river area and rising above the birdsong. If the stout man was aware of them he did not stop, let alone turn back and investigate. Instead he walked as rapidly as decorum and his aching lungs would allow back in the direction of Elvet Bridge.

Another wanderer in the area was Ambrose Barker. He had been following Flask and Kitty for over a day now. He had attended the performance at the Assembly Rooms the previous evening and had been greatly cheered when Flask had been shut up inside that cabinet and made to disappear. Pity it was all a trick. Sure enough Flask had turned up again, like a bad penny. Ambrose was aware of this because he had been on the point of returning to the house in Old Elvet earlier that morning to have it out with Kitty once and for all. But as he was about to turn into the street he saw Flask coming out of the door. Ambrose turned away and waited until the figure in the bright green frock-coat had passed. Ambrose changed his mind about seeing Kitty that instant. His feelings, of resentment and anger, were directed once more towards the guv'nor. If he had disappeared once, surely he might be made to disappear again?

Superintendent Frank Harcourt had left his house earlier that morning. For him it was a brisk walk along Hallgarth Street towards the police-house in Court Lane. As he was approaching New Elvet he was dismayed to see Eustace Flask on the other side of the street, although the medium seemed to have lost something of his usual swagger. Flask was apparently heading for the old part of town. Harcourt would have identified him anywhere by that frock-coat. The Superintendent took advantage of a convenient tree and watched as Flask passed. When the medium had gone a hundred yards or so, Harcourt wondered whether to follow him and see what he was up to.

So the body in the woods was soon identified as that of Eustace Flask. Just as the woman standing over his corpse would soon be identified as Mrs Helen Ansell.

Durham Gaol

‘Why has she been brought here? Tell me. I demand to know.'

Tom was beside himself. The sweat was standing out on his forehead and he could not stay still for an instant. He wanted to lash out at something or someone. But the police superintendent standing on the opposite side of the desk kept a stolid calm.

‘It is for her own safety, sir. Will you sit down?'

‘Safety! In a gaol!'

‘You might be surprised, Mr Ansell, but this place behind us is quite salubrious compared to the police-house in Court Lane. We are not adapted for accommodating people of, er, quality in the station-house. And we would have drawn more attention taking your wife there than we did by bringing her here. She is quite comfortable. She will not have to mix with any of the other inmates, yet. I can recognize a lady when I see one. I ask again, sir, will you sit down?'

‘Why should I sit down?'

‘Then I can sit too.'

‘All right,' said Tom, aware that he was only harming his – or rather Helen's – cause by his confusion and anger. ‘I must apologize, Superintendent . . . ?'

‘Harcourt, sir, Frank Harcourt.'

Tom and Superintendent Harcourt were standing in a plainly furnished office in the Crown Courts behind which stood Durham Gaol. Tom had a view of the prison through a grimy window. There was a vase of wilted flowers on the window ledge. The building beyond was bulky and formidable and somewhere inside it, only a hundred yards distant, his wife was confined. It was almost impossible to believe. Tom took a deep breath and sat on a hard chair. His heart was beating hard, as it had been ever since the message had arrived at Miss Howlett's house in South Bailey that a Mrs Ansell was in the custody of the police. Luckily, the servant had brought the message straight to Tom.

Without telling Aunt Julia or anyone else, without putting on his coat, he ran to the police-house in Court Lane, only to be informed that he should apply to the County Court instead. He gathered no more than that Helen had been apprehended near a dead body which had been discovered in the woods below the cathedral. Tom arrived at the County Court, sweating and furious and fearful. Dashing into the spacious hallway and spotting a superintendent's uniform he had buttonholed the man. By chance he had encountered the very one who could tell him what was happening.

Now Frank Harcourt was settling himself on the far side of the desk and toying with an empty pen holder and a blotter. He picked up a paperweight and looked at it curiously.

‘Not my office,' he explained. He eventually found a notepad and a pencil in a drawer. ‘A few preliminaries, if you don't mind. You are Mr Thomas Ansell?'

Tom nodded.

‘And your profession, sir?'

‘I am a solicitor, with a London firm. Scott, Lye & Mackenzie of Furnival Street.'

‘Is that L-I-E?'

‘With a Y.'

Harcourt bent over the notepad and laboriously wrote all this down, pressing hard on the paper. He stuck out his tongue as he wrote and his face turned more ruddy. The pencil point broke and a couple of minutes passed while Harcourt rummaged in his clothing. He produced a little clasp knife which he snapped open with a grunt of satisfaction. He shaved the tip of the pencil until a decent length of lead was showing. He gave his whole attention to the job. To avoid gazing out of the window and seeing the prison beyond, Tom stared round the room. The walls were bare apart from a framed sampler that bore the embroidered legend: ‘Blessed Are They That Hunger And Thirst After Righteousness.'

‘And your wife, Mr Ansell?' continued Harcourt, his sharpened pencil poised again. ‘She is called Helen?'

‘Yes. But she must have told you so already.'

‘She did. You are visiting Durham on legal business?'

‘Helen's aunt lives here. We are staying with her for a few days. That is, with Miss Julia Howlett in the South Bailey.'