The Durham Deception (20 page)

‘It was one that made my skin crawl. Something between a groan and a gurgle and coming from among the trees further up the slope. More animal than human. There was a kind of track leading uphill. What drove me to follow it and discover the source of the sound, I do not know. It is a strange thing but I remembered then what that poor medium, Mr Smight, said to you – or what your father's spirit said to you – that there was danger in the woods and near water. It was a warning to me not to you.'

‘It must have been,' said Tom, his skin crawling.

‘Is it not strange,' persisted Helen, in a musing way, ‘strange that we are not always governed by the instinct for self-preservation and will run our heads into the noose? The noose? What am I saying?'

Helen stopped once more and gulped several times. Tom poured water from the jug into the glass and gave it to her.

‘You don't have to say any more, Helen. I heard about what . . . what happened next. Do not distress yourself by living over the details again.'

‘I cannot escape the details anyway, Tom. Everything is like a terrible dream – there was Mr Flask – for I recognized him straightaway – I went close – and there was blood welling from his neck and he seemed to shake and quiver where he lay on the leaf-mould – and the sunlight was dappling the ground like gold coins and the birds were still singing in the trees without a care in the world. I must have shouted and screamed. I know I opened my mouth with the intention of doing so. At last some men in labouring clothes came into the clearing but they would not approach me and one said something under his breath and another ran off and then he returned with a constable and there were whistles blown and other police appeared and one of them who is a superintendent, I think, he spoke quite kindly to me and then they took me away and led me to this place and to this cell and, oh, Tom, what is going to happen to me?'

‘Nothing is going to happen to you, my darling. I will do my utmost to protect you.'

‘Thank you, Tom.'

They embraced awkwardly on the prison bed. There was the sound of a key being turned in the lock and Tom mentally cursed Perkins for being a greedy, heartless intruder. But it was Superintendent Frank Harcourt who was standing on the threshold of the tiny chamber.

‘Mr Ansell and Mrs Ansell, my apologies for disturbing what was obviously a, ah, delicate domestic moment but I would like you to accompany me.'

Tom got up reluctantly. He thought he detected a different tone in the policeman's voice, more deferential, less assured. Helen stayed where she was, sitting on the bed.

‘Both of you, if you would be so good. I said that there had been a new development in the case, and I would like to discuss it with you.'

They left the cell. Perkins was standing outside. He had his palm artlessly extended as if to show the way and, as Tom passed, he slipped another half-sovereign into it while the Superintendent's back was turned. Perkins touched his blue cap to Helen.

‘A pleasure seeing a real lady in here,' he said.

‘Enough of your guff,' said Harcourt over his shoulder.

They retraced their path along the walkway and down the spiral stairs. Perkins unlocked the barred gate and the doors on either side of the bare vestibule. They crossed the walled yard and re-entered the Crown Court and so went along drab passages and up bare stairs until they came once more to the office where Tom had first talked with Harcourt. There was a constable inside, the same one who had knocked while Tom was first with the Superintendent.

‘You can go, Humphries,' said Harcourt.

‘Very good, sir. I've been keeping a careful watch.'

When the three were alone Harcourt gestured at the single additional feature of the room. This was the item over which Humphries had been keeping his careful watch. A yellow cardboard box about a foot long and six inches wide had been placed in the centre of the desk. Brown paper wrapping and a length of cut twine lay next to Harcourt's clasp-knife. The Superintendent picked up the brown paper and handed it to Tom who showed it to Helen.

‘There,' said Harcourt. ‘It was sent to me by name at the police-house. Knowing I was at the court building they brought it straight here.'

Printed in red ink and in rather straggling characters was: ‘FRANK HARCORT, POLIS HOUSE, CORT LANE'. Above the address in the same script was a single word: ‘URJENT!'

‘My name is misspelled as are the words “Police”, “Court Lane” and “urgent”,' said Harcourt unnecessarily. ‘Would you open the box, Mrs Ansell?'

‘I will open it,' said Tom.

‘No, sir. I would prefer your wife to do the honours. It won't bite. Look at the lid first, Mrs Ansell.'

There was a pale rectangle on the lid where a manufacturer's or shopkeeper's label must have been pasted. The label had been torn off although unidentifiable fragments still adhered to the top of the box.

‘Someone didn't want you to know the source of the box,' said Helen.

‘Just so,' said Harcourt. ‘Now open it if you please.'

Holding the box with one hand, Helen removed the lid with the other. Tom was standing too far away to see what she could see. She gazed at the contents of the box and then her hands flew to her cheeks in horror. Tom was beside her in a second. He looked down. Nestling on a piece of fabric inside the box was a knife. He recognized it as the Lucknow Dagger. The multi-armed figure of Kali, goddess of death and destruction, trampling on the fallen figure and surrounded by skulls, was clearly visible. But even that sinister image could not distract Tom's eyes from the bluish steel of the blade which seemed to have taken on a yet darker hue.

The last time he had seen the Dagger it had been in the possession of Sebastian Marmont. Should he say so? He was about to speak out but something prevented him. Not yet. Not until he had had the opportunity to confront Marmont who was, after all, a client of his firm. Of course if the Major did not have a credible story then it would be Tom's duty to report what he knew to the Durham police.

While all this was spinning round in Tom's head, Superintendent Harcourt had been watching Helen closely. ‘Sit down, Mrs Ansell,' he said. ‘I can see the sight of the knife has given you a turn.'

Helen had gone pale. She slumped into the seat by the desk.

‘That was deliberate,' said Tom, his anger rising. ‘You had no need to subject my wife to this ordeal, Harcourt.'

‘On the contrary, sir, it all goes towards confirming her innocence. You should be pleased. Moreover, you should be especially pleased with this.'

He fumbled in his pockets and brought out a folded sheet of white paper which he passed to Tom. There was some writing on it which was in the same red ink, the same style of capital letters, as the address on the brown wrapper. Tom took it round to where Helen was sitting. He placed the paper on the desk and they read it together.

‘Oh God,' said Helen.

Tom turned away to look out of the window at the bulk of Durham Gaol. The sun shone on the slate roofs of the prison wings but he felt chilled. He picked up the sheet from the desk.

It read: ‘THE LADY DID'NT DO THE DEED COZ I DID THIS HOMISIDE FOR PRUFE PLEASE FIND THE KNYF I USED'

‘It's a facer, isn't it,' said Harcourt, pleased at the effect of the knife and the note on the Ansells. ‘That appears to be the murder weapon. It does not look English to my eyes.'

‘No,' said Tom, ‘it is not English.'

‘And the note is obviously written by a person of small education because of the spelling.'

‘Or by someone who wants you to think he is not educated,' said Helen. Her initial horror over, she peered again into the box which contained the knife. She pulled out the piece of fabric and dangled it by a corner. It was a handkerchief. Though smeared with blood, the delicate lilac colour showed through. Helen caught Tom's eye but she said nothing and hastily put the cloth back. Something else about the cardboard box must have attracted her attention, though, for she put her face close to the knife and handkerchief as if to scrutinize them even more closely.

‘Well,' said Harcourt, ‘I think we can say that this exonerates you, Mrs Ansell. These items, taken together, have opened the door of your cell.'

‘Who delivered the parcel to the police-house, Superintendent?' said Tom.

‘My sergeant says a dirty-faced urchin ran into the station and dropped it like a hot coal before running out again. By the time he got to the door, the boy was nowhere to be seen. Whoever did it probably gave him a couple of pennies for his pains.'

‘Wouldn't it be worth trying to find the boy? Whoever paid him those pennies was most likely the murderer. You might get a description of the person.'

‘Very true, Mrs Ansell. But there are plenty of scruffy children in this city who'd do more for twopence than deliver a package. I do not propose to go in search of them. Please do not let me detain
you
any longer though.'

Once he'd ascertained that they were staying in town a little longer and that Helen would be available to make a formal statement in the next day or so, he showed them to the door. As he stood there he said, ‘I hope you do not think any the worse of me, Mrs Ansell, but you will understand that we had no choice but to apprehend you, given your proximity to the body and the fact that there was no one else in the immediate neighbourhood. No hard feelings, eh?'

‘Not at all, Superintendent,' said Helen. ‘But I will take more care in future not to be found in the region of the dead.'

When the Ansells had gone, Superintendent Frank Harcourt went to examine once more the items which had been delivered to him. First he picked up the letter and read it for what must have been the tenth time. She was clever, Mrs Ansell, no doubt about it. Clever to have understood that the writer might wish to pass for being only half-educated rather than really being so. Astute in her suggestion that if they could get hold of the boy who'd dropped off the parcel, they might get a description of the person who'd given it to him in the first place. Harcourt hoped that his declared reluctance to go searching for the boy had sounded plausible.

He studied the knife in the box. Yes, it was definitely foreign – and valuable. He would leave it as it was, with its bloodied blade, but place the box in the safe in the police-house. He folded up the brown paper with its crudely written address and rolled up the length of twine. He placed them both inside the cardboard box, along with the letter. He slipped his clasp-knife back into his waistcoat pocket.

Once he had deposited the package in the station at Court Lane, he would set about investigating the murder of Eustace Flask. He would make a show of activity. He would question people and take statements. He would satisfy the Chief Constable, Alfred Huggins, who had so recently been demanding that action be taken against Flask. He would be rigorous, a model of professionalism. Yet, even so, the murderer of Eustace Flask might never be found. It happened from time to time. Despite the best efforts of the police, people occasionally got away with murder, didn't they?

The Perseus Cabinet

It was fortunate in one way that Helen Ansell had been taken to the gaol even if it was only for a few miserable hours. Fortunate because Aunt Julia's distress and outrage at this completely eclipsed any disturbance she might have felt at the news of Eustace Flask's murder.

She said she would speak to the Chief Constable and the Bishop of Durham. She was going to protest to their Member of Parliament. She would write to
The Times
. But before that, she insisted that Helen should bathe, sleep, be seen by a doctor, be dosed up, eat a good meal, imbibe pots of tea, and swallow several cordials, all at the same time. Helen did agree that her dress, which was stained by Flask's blood, ought to be got rid of rather than laundered, but otherwise she distracted herself in the attempt to calm her aunt. Septimus Sheridan too was upset and fussed around in an ineffectual way, muttering about the indignity of incarcerating a lady and the sacrilege of a murder committed a few hundred yards over the river from the cathedral.

Helen put on a good front so it was only Tom who knew how deeply she had been shaken by what happened. She could not sleep that night and, at one o'clock in the morning, they lay side by side talking about the peculiar turn events had taken.

‘Thank goodness that parcel was sent to the police-house, Tom. I might be spending my first night in Durham Gaol otherwise.'

‘But you are not. Thank God you are here with me. We are together.'

‘It is odd though, isn't it? If you had committed a murder and someone else – the wrong person – was apprehended for the crime, what would you do?'

‘Nothing, I suppose.'

‘Instead you would be pleased that the police were on the wrong scent. You would want them to go on holding that wrong person for a long time, even for the person to be put on trial and . . .'

‘And all the rest of it.'

‘We know what the ‘rest of it' means even if we don't want to spell it out. Why, if you were the real murderer you might even be pleased to see someone sent to the gallows in your place. A scapegoat. Or, if not
pleased
, then at least prepared to have him standing on the trapdoor rather than you. Even to have
her
on the trapdoor.'

‘Don't talk in that way, Helen. Your imagination is too vivid.'

‘But you see, Tom, what we have here is a murderer with a conscience. He – let us assume it is a he, perhaps the very man I saw running away from the scene – he is capable of killing but he acts quickly when the wrong person is apprehended. He is scrupulous. He doesn't wish to share the blame. He goes so far as to deliver the murder weapon and a helpful note to the police saying that he has done the deed.'