The Durham Deception (27 page)

‘At the same time he was struggling to untie the cord which secured the sheath and dagger that still hung about his neck. It might seem strange that no one had removed – or stolen – the dagger with its strange ivory handle but it is a measure of those desperate days that we all had other more important things on our minds. He pressed sheath and dagger into my hand. I thought he wanted me to examine them again and reluctantly I withdrew the weapon from its sheath. It's not fanciful to say that the blade seemed to gather to itself the furious red light of the setting sun, as if it was once more steeped in blood. I made to return it to Lal but, no, he wanted me to have the dagger. He pushed it back with all his strength. It was a gift, a dying gift if you like. He whispered, “It is yours. May it bring you better fortune, Lieutenant Marmont.”

‘Naturally I didn't know what he was talking about and nor was I to find out because he was seized with a worse bout of shaking, amounting almost to a convulsion. I stood there, helpless. At length the doctor more or less ordered me from the room. Lal had subsided into an exhausted sleep or something deeper.

‘When I had a moment to myself I looked more carefully at the dagger. It was a fine piece of work, no doubt, but I would have been glad to return it to Lal. I don't know why, but there was some quality to it which made me uneasy. It had been used recently to kill a man, and had very likely despatched other men in the past. But it wasn't that exactly. After all, we were surrounded by carnage in Lucknow and any weapon you touched might have been used to kill and maim.

‘But I was the possessor of the dagger whether I liked it or not, Mr and Mrs Ansell. Lal died a few hours later, and his last words to me had been a request, a command even, that I should take the thing. There was a witness too in the shape of the doctor. He had some more unwelcome information, which was probably why this medical man took pleasure in passing it on to me. It seemed that Lal had been talking half lucidly during his brief sickness, and that he had referred to having left his father's house in disgrace. In fact, he appeared to be some kind of fugitive. I remembered that he had mentioned his background before we set off on our mission and that I'd been surprised he came of princely stock. Perhaps it wasn't true, perhaps it was all fantasy. But plainly there was some sinister association with the dagger. Why else should he have said, “May it bring you better fortune”?

‘I learned later that the dagger was indeed cursed. One of Lal's brothers had died while he, Lal that is, was wielding it in what was supposed to be a playful tussle and the young man had fled his family home in shame. Hearing all this, I examined the dagger carefully and, imagination or not, it took on a very malevolent aspect. A weapon with a mind of its own, Lal had said, as if the spirit of Kali dwelt within the thing.'

Major Marmont might have had more to say but he was interrupted by Dilip Gopal and his nephews, the Major's sons, arriving from their lodging-house nearby. It was time to go to the Assembly Rooms for that evening's performance.

Visiting the Chemist

As Inspector Traynor and Superintendent Harcourt were returning from the South Bailey and on their way to the County Hotel, the London policeman surprised the Durham one by turning aside when they were nearing the market square. Harcourt suggested they might get a carriage but Traynor insisted on walking everywhere. The only true method, he said, of getting the feel of a place was from the feet upwards. It took him back to his days on the beat in Finchley.

Then without a word of explanation Traynor suddenly entered a chemist's. Brought to an abrupt stop and standing next to the plate-glass, Harcourt pretended to study the curling gilt script which announced the proprietor as FRED'K W. PASCAL. Then he fixed his attention on a poster for fresh leeches next to one extolling the virtues of arrowroot from Bermuda. Perhaps Traynor had been stricken with a sudden attack of something. Perhaps he had forgotten to pack some necessary medicine.

Harcourt turned his back on the window and scanned the shoppers and idlers and passers-by. He was looking for a man fitting the artist's image which was folded in his pocket. Doctor Anthony Smight should not be too hard to pick out from the mass of people, given his yellowish skin, his lined face and above-average height. Nor, presumably, would he speak with the local accent. It would be a coup if he, Frank Harcourt, was the one to detect him in the crowd. One in the eye for the representative of Great Scotland Yard.

Privately, Harcourt thought it unlikely that this so-called Doctor was still in Durham, assuming he had ever been here in the first place. Neither did Harcourt consider that the danger to the Ansells was as great as Traynor had made out. The story of a man seeking vengeance for the suicide of a brother seemed too far-fetched and melodramatic. And those deaths of the London policeman and his wife, might they not have been an accident after all? Harcourt remembered witnessing the aftermath of a gas poisoning in a house over in Allergate, deaths which had been caused not by malice but by carelessness.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Traynor.

‘How many chemists are there in the city?'

Unlike the question about the number of constables, this was not one that the Inspector could answer straightaway. ‘Four or five, I believe. Are you in urgent need of some remedy, Inspector?'

‘No, no. I was showing the chemist the drawing of Anthony Smight. I asked if anybody resembling the picture had called in during the last few days – without result. Will you detail one of your men to make a round of the other chemists in the city with the picture? It is a long shot but one worth trying. You recall that Doctor Smight is in thrall to opium. Your man is to ask if anyone of that description has lately purchased laudanum or opium pills.'

‘Very well.'

‘This is your town, Superintendent—'

‘Durham is a city.'

‘Of course. But like any town or city it must have its less salubrious quarters. To your knowledge are there places where opium is regularly smoked?'

The two men had strolled down into the market square. For answer Harcourt halted and gestured at the market scene.

‘This is a respectable town – ah, city – Inspector. We may be built on coal but we have an ancient cathedral and now we have a university too. What with the men of the cloth at one end or those who toil away underground at the other, I do not think that Durham would provide fertile soil for
that
kind of activity. We are not a port city.'

In his mind Harcourt associated opium dens with Chinese men in pigtails and white females who were either haggard or seductive. But Traynor was already thinking in a different direction.

‘How far is Newcastle from here?'

‘About twenty minutes by train. There is a regular service.'

Traynor said nothing for a time. When he did speak, Harcourt was baffled by his words.

‘If I am pursuing a villain, Superintendent, I sometimes put myself into his shoes. I reach a fork in the road and, knowing that the person I seek has travelled this route before me, I do not choose for myself but ask which path
he
would take.'

Harcourt turned to look at the stolid, average figure beside him. He was surprised that such a bland man as Traynor could display any power of imagination.

‘You think this man, Doctor Tony, is staying in Newcastle?'

‘Newcastle is larger than Durham, is it not? Besides, it is a port city and ports are more easy-going than inland places. Newcastle offers greater opportunities for anonymity, no doubt. Yes, if I were Anthony Smight I might well make Newcastle my base. So there is one more request I must make of you, Superintendent. Choose a group of your most reliable men. Put them on a rota watch at the railway station but not in uniform. Let the man on duty keep particular note of travellers between Durham and Newcastle, one for each platform. If he sees someone fitting Smight's description either boarding the Newcastle train or alighting from one here, he should follow him to see where he goes – but always exercising the utmost caution since I believe we are dealing with a ruthless murderer. Have you got men up to the task?'

‘Of course I have,' said Harcourt, divided between wanting to show willing and at the same time assert his own interests, or rather those of the Durham force. ‘But, Inspector, you are aware we are dealing with our own murder. This man Flask.'

‘Yes. In my experience, though, heightened police activity directed towards one purpose sometimes uncovers other criminals along the way. Give me more details of your affair this evening when we are snug in the bosom of your family. The murder of this Eustace Flask might after all be connected with the arrival of Doctor Smight.'

‘Which you have already called coincidence.'

‘A coincidence is only so until it is proved otherwise.'

He is quite the police philosopher, this William Traynor, thought Harcourt as they strolled through the old town and across the river to the County Hotel. But naturally he said nothing of his annoyance and contented himself with pointing out some more of the sights of Durham.

By good fortune they encountered Tom and Helen in the lobby of the hotel as they were leaving after their meeting with Major Marmont. Neither of the Ansells was exactly pleased to see Superintendent Harcourt again but he was quick to reassure Helen that their call was nothing to do with the Flask business. He introduced Inspector Traynor, explaining that the detective from Great Scotland Yard had significant information which concerned the couple.

William Traynor spoke to the hotel porter. He required somewhere quiet where they might chat. The four were directed to an empty snug next to the hotel dining room. Tom and Helen sat together on an old ottoman, the two policemen in armchairs opposite with a low table between them. The smell of food together with the distant chink of plates and cutlery reminded Harcourt that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. The London detective seemed tireless, unaffected by hunger. Fuelled only by the meat pie from Derby station, he had already spent a lengthy period in the police-house, visited Miss Howlett's house and questioned a chemist, besides suggesting a couple of investigative lines. Harcourt thought this must be the pace at which police business was conducted in a big city. He wondered whether to send a message to Rhoda that he and his special guest would be late for supper.

It took some time for even an abbreviated form of the story which Inspector Traynor had to tell. First, he checked that the Ansells had indeed attended the séance in Tullis Street at which Seldon, a policeman in civilian clothes, exposed Ernest Smight.

‘But Mr and Mrs Seldon are dead,' interrupted Helen. ‘I saw it in the paper. I mentioned it to you, Tom. An accidental gas leak, wasn't it, Inspector?'

‘It was no accident, Mrs Ansell,' said Traynor, observing the I-told-you-so look which passed between wife and husband. Swiftly he outlined his reasons for concluding that the death of the Seldons was an ill-disguised murder. He explained the part played by Doctor Anthony Smight, his motive being revenge for the suicide of his brother, Ernest. He said he believed that the Ansells were next on Smight's list.

‘That is hard to believe,' said Tom. ‘I admit I would have been ready to testify against Ernest Smight if I had been summoned, and I can't say I had any sympathy with the man in the first place. But I – we – were sorry to hear of his death, even if it was by his own hand. Surely this involvement of ours is too small and insignificant for his brother to want to . . . harm us as you've described? It's not rational.'

‘Mr Ansell,' said Inspector Traynor, allowing the smallest of smiles to creep across his face, ‘you're a lawyer, as I understand it. You are surely aware of just how irrational people can be. That is why the law was invented.'

Then, as he had at the chemist's, he produced the police artist's sketch of Doctor Tony. A less impassive man than Traynor might have been gratified by the effect the picture produced on the couple.

‘My God,' said Tom. ‘It is the man on the riverbank.'

‘Which man is that, Mr Ansell?'

‘A few days ago we were out for a walk and the person in this picture tried to return a handkerchief which he said my wife had dropped.'

‘It wasn't my handkerchief,' said Helen. ‘I told him so quite clearly. At the time I thought he was being very insistent. It was as if he wanted to find some excuse to speak with us, to see us face to face.'

‘That's probably what he did want,' said Traynor.

‘There is more,' said Helen, taking the picture from Tom and studying it carefully. ‘I knew that this individual reminded me of someone. There is a likeness between him and the unfortunate medium, the one from Tullis Street. See, Tom.'

‘I do now,' said Tom. ‘Something about the eyes and forehead. Not surprising if they are brothers.'

‘In one way, this is good news,' said Traynor. ‘It confirms, Harcourt, that the man we are seeking is in Durham. But it also underlines the threat facing Mr and Mrs Ansell. Doctor Anthony Smight is on your trail. Do not be afraid, though, for we are on his.'

Despite the reassurance, Tom and Helen automatically glanced round as if the murderer might be lurking in a corner of the oak-panelled snug.

‘I cannot help being a little afraid,' said Helen. ‘Fear seems justified on this occasion.'

‘You really think we are in danger, Inspector?' said Tom.

‘We shall act as if the danger to you and your wife is real, Mr Ansell,' said Traynor.

‘It is real,' said Helen firmly. ‘Before we left London there was a person keeping watch on our house. Remember, Tom, I told you that as well. He was asking questions about us at the grocer's.'