The Durham Deception (6 page)

‘In the Major's case his learning is as genuine as his rank. He is not like Stodare who was never in the army but still styled himself a Colonel. No, Marmont is the real thing. He served in India for many years. There was always something of the showman in him and when he quit the army he became a magician.'

‘It sounds as though you know him, Mr Mackenzie,' said Tom, more and more surprised at Mackenzie's knowledge of the world of magic.

‘Like his father before him, Major Marmont is one of the clients of Scott, Lye & Mackenzie. I've met Marmont on quite a few occasions. A most entertaining fellow, full of tales. You will enjoy your encounter with him.'

Well, it would make a change from dealing with codicils, probates and leaseholds. Tom waited for David Mackenzie to tell him more. But the lawyer seemed curiously uncomfortable. He fiddled with his pipe so that, when it was going again, he was almost obscured behind a cloud of smoke. Perhaps, Tom thought, he's about to perform a vanishing trick himself. Eventually, when Mackenzie spoke, his tone was somewhere between the apologetic and the persuasive.

‘Tom, I don't know why I should turn to you when the firm has an odd task to undertake. And this is odder than most, like something out of Wilkie Collins. But perhaps I am looking to you because of the way you conducted that business in Salisbury last year. Perhaps it is because I trust your shrewdness and judgement. You showed those qualities most of all by choosing Helen Scott for your wife . . .'

He paused and Tom wondered what alarming or delicate errand was in prospect.

‘I would like you to visit Major Marmont and take an affidavit from him. He possesses an unusual item; an ornamental or ceremonial dagger which has, he says, a curious value. The handle is carved with figures. It was the gift of some prince or maharaja out east. But a rumour to the effect that he might have come by it, ah, illicitly is doing the rounds. Marmont wishes to make a statement under oath as to how he acquired the dagger. It should be an interesting story.'

‘But it could be no more than that – just a story. Straight out of Wilkie Collins, as you say.'

‘Sebastian Marmont is an honest fellow if I'm any judge. He is an officer and an English gentleman.'

‘As well as being a magician,' said Tom, still not quite crediting this bizarre combination.

‘It's an odd thing but I believe magicians in general are honest folk. At least they make no bones about tricking you, which takes a kind of honesty.'

‘Will he be believed though?' said Tom, thinking it was peculiar that Mackenzie's words were an echo of what Helen's mother had said about magicians. ‘Will Major Marmont be believed even if he swears an affidavit?'

‘Those who want to think ill of Major Marmont will continue to do so but others may be swayed by knowing he has made such a statement.'

‘Where is this gentleman magician playing at the moment? In London?'

‘Why no, he is touring in the north of the country for the summer. You can catch up with him in York or Durham.'

‘In Durham?'

‘Yes, a very fine city.'

‘Forgive me for asking, Mr Mackenzie, but has Mrs Scott been in touch with you? Helen's mother?'

‘She has spoken to me, I'm prepared to admit. I understand that there is some family problem which she wishes Helen to deal with in Durham. But my request to you is separate from that, quite separate, although you will be able to kill two birds with a single stone, as it were. Of course you should accompany your wife on her journey north. As I say, it should make an interesting trip. You can listen to old Marmont's tales of the orient.'

David Mackenzie paused to fiddle with his pipe. He squinted at Tom through the fug, as if the other might raise some objection. But Tom couldn't think of anything to say. It was an odd task, going to see a retired army man about a ceremonial dagger, but not so very odd perhaps. Lawyers were sometimes expected to do out-of-the-way things. The coincidence was that Durham had been mentioned as a destination a couple of times in as many weeks. He suspected collusion between Mrs Scott and Mr Mackenzie, especially because they seemed to have the same opinion of magicians. He'd discuss it with Helen when he got home.

But before that Tom dropped in on Ashley, the senior clerk.

‘A strange affair as you said, Mr Ashley. This business of the dagger and so on.'

‘Ah, the Dagger of Lucknow,' said Ashley.

‘Lucknow?'

‘In northern India. Consult your atlas, Mr Ansell.'

‘It is quicker to consult you, Mr Ashley. Next you'll be telling me the dagger is cursed, I suppose.'

Tom meant it as a joke and was surprised to see Ashley's forehead grow even more corrugated.

‘It may not be cursed exactly but there is a story attached to it. During the siege of Lucknow . . . you
have
heard of that, Mr Ansell?'

‘The siege in the Mutiny?'

‘Yes, the Indian Mutiny. A historic event within your lifetime and well within mine. It seems that our client, Major Sebastian Marmont, acquired the dagger while undertaking a dangerous mission. He was a junior officer at the time. It appears he was given the dagger as a gift by his Indian companion.'

‘You say “seems” and “appears”, Mr Ashley.'

‘I have been working at this firm since . . . well, for a long time, Mr Ansell. I am cautious when I venture an opinion or report a story. I do know for a fact, however, that there was some question about the provenance of the Lucknow Dagger. A few years ago Major Marmont got wind of some tittle-tattle which was to appear in one of the London papers and he instructed us to send a letter, a shot across the bows if you like. Nothing was published.'

‘But now the rumours have started again.'

‘So it seems.'

‘This Major Marmont is really a magician? I could hardly believe it when Mr Mackenzie said so.'

‘Oh yes. Mr Mackenzie has a soft spot for magicians. He – that is, Mr Mackenzie – used to do conjuring tricks for his children at Christmas.'

‘I did not even know that the Mackenzies had children,' said Tom, forgetting the magic tricks and remembering instead the tall and bony Mrs Mackenzie.

‘Well, Mr Ansell, we have an office life and a home life, you know. Some of us like to keep them separate.'

This unexpected remark naturally made Tom speculate about Mr Ashley's home life, something he'd never done before. It occurred to him he did not even know Mr Ashley's first name. Now was not the moment to ask. Instead he thanked the senior clerk.

When Tom got home that evening he found Helen in a distracted, almost distressed state. He'd been looking forward to telling her about the Lucknow Dagger and planning for their journey to Durham. But first she had something to show him. It was an item from a two-day-old copy of
The Register
. Helen had been about to put aside the newspaper so that Hetty could use it for lining shelves when a heading caught her eye. The heading was
Another Waterloo Suicide?
As Tom read the news item, he felt himself grow cold.

A body recovered yesterday from the Thames has been identified by the authorities as that of Mr Ernest Smight of 67 Tullis Street near the British Museum. It is believed that Mr Smight fell or jumped to his death from Waterloo Bridge. The toll-keeper, Mr Lind, recalls a person of Mr Smight's description crossing the bridge from the north bank on Monday evening at around 10 o'clock. Mr Lind says, ‘The gentleman was well dressed for a mild summer evening. I particularly remarked upon his thick clothing. He also neglected to take the change of five pennies from the sixpence which he tendered. Five whole pennies! I had to call him back to my booth and he did not thank me for it. I am certain this was the individual later recovered from the river.
'

‘Oh God,' said Tom.

‘Yes,' said Helen. ‘I have had the whole day to think this over. I've read the story again and again. I couldn't help thinking that the medium warned about the danger to us, the danger near water, and now he is drowned.'

‘I am sorry for it,' said Tom, though he wasn't sure whether he was saying sorry to Helen or expressing regret about the whole Smight business. One advantage, the only one, was that there could now be no court case and so no need for witnesses.

‘Why was he dressed in those thick clothes?' said Helen, breaking into his thoughts.

‘I don't know. Probably because he thought they'd drag him down more quickly.'

‘Ugh. Horrid thought. That's if it was a suicide.'

‘What else can it have been? It would be hard to fall off Waterloo Bridge by accident. Besides, we know some of the circumstances that led up to it.'

‘We do know the circumstances, but I can't help feeling we have a hand in this, somehow.'

‘We didn't unmask Mr Smight, Helen. That policeman, Seldon, did it. Smight was an impostor.'

‘An impostor who had a glimpse of your late father.'

Tom had forgotten this or rather had done his best to forget it. Now he said, ‘I'm sure the medium got the information from somewhere. He no more saw my father than I did.'

‘You weren't looking in the right direction.'

It wasn't worth arguing about. Helen now seemed inclined to give the medium the benefit of the doubt even while Tom's own doubts had hardened. But the news story about the drowning of Ernest Smight wasn't the only thing to unsettle Helen. She told Tom how Hetty had been at the shops that afternoon and had discovered that someone had been asking questions about them.

‘About us?'

‘You know Hetty always goes to Covins for the vegetables? Well, it appears that someone was in the shop earlier today asking about the neighbourhood, saying how it was coming up in the world and so on, and how he'd heard that lawyers and such people were moving out to Kentish Town. He wanted to know whether it would be a good place to start a business or open a shop.'

‘Sounds innocent enough,' said Tom.

‘Wait a moment. According to Hetty, Mr Covins said that if the fellow asking the questions was a would-be shopkeeper then he was a Chinaman. Mr Covins was a Chinaman, that is.'

‘I still don't see what it's got to with us.'

‘He mentioned Abercrombie Road by name, he talked about lawyers and notaries coming from the City.'

‘Coincidence,' said Tom.

‘And that is not all,' said Helen more urgently as Tom was dismissing her words. ‘There was a man standing on the other side of the street this afternoon. I watched him from the upstairs window for a good ten minutes. Loitering, I would have said, and casting his eyes across the houses on this side.'

‘What did he look like?'

‘Small and slight. Dressed in labouring clothes. But when I opened the front door to go and have a word with him he'd gone.'

‘It's probably nothing,' said Tom. But nevertheless he felt uneasy. The mysterious figure might have been a ‘crow', as they were known, someone deputed to scout a district for potential break-ins. He reminded himself to make certain that all the doors and windows were well fastened that night. On the other hand, the whole thing might be a case of Helen letting her imagination loose. She made up stories, after all, and might see patterns and plots where someone else – Tom, for example – could see nothing at all. But he didn't say this. Instead he changed the subject.

He told Helen about his instructions from David Mackenzie and outlined what he knew of the Major and his dagger, which wasn't much. Her blue eyes opened wider. Now he too had an official reason to travel to Durham. Helen also believed that there'd probably been some collaboration between her mother and Mr Mackenzie. It could hardly have been prearranged though. Just a coincidence – yet another coincidence! – and a fortunate one from the point of view of Mrs Scott, who did not wish her daughter to go on her mission unaccompanied.

So while his wife would be doing her best to persuade her aunt Julia Howlett away from her devotion to Eustace Flask, Tom would take a statement from a Major-turned-touring-magician who wanted to let the world know that he had come honestly by the item known as the Lucknow Dagger.

It was all very odd.

Penharbour Lane

At about the same time as Tom and Helen Ansell were discussing Ernest Smight's suicide, a man in working clothes turned off Lower Thames Street in the area immediately to the east of London Bridge. He walked down Penharbour Lane, which was little more than an alley between factories and warehouses. The evening was miserable with drizzle. The man arrived at a building which seemed to have had all the life squeezed out of it by its bigger, taller neighbours on either side. At the bottom of a flight of steps was a basement door. Above the door there swung and flickered an oil lamp, hanging from a rusty bracket.