The Hidden Man (30 page)

‘My father spoke of you often, Sir,' I said. ‘I believe you helped him in some of his cases.'

‘Indeed I did. Let me see. There was the Stoney Gate Hoard, so-called, though in fact it was dug out of Titmouse's Orchard a few yards at the back of Stoney Gate. I gave evidence at your father's inquest that it was old English coin, because there were those who said they were Roman, you know, without bringing a scruple of knowledge to the matter. Not a scruple.'

‘And that is your chief antiquarian expertness – old silver coins?'

‘Well, perhaps I flatter myself, but I suppose I know as much as any man in the county about them, yes. But it is silver plate that I find most attractive.'

He found a key in his waistcoat and opened the glass front of a cabinet containing eight drawers. He slid one of these fully out and, making room, placed it on a table for my inspection.

‘Here is a drawer containing some pieces of old silver. Anglo-Saxon, some of it is.'

The items were polished, none of them more than a few inches in length but they glinted with the singular authority that good silver possesses. I picked up one, that was shaped like a miniature shovel.

‘An earwax scoop,' said Flitcroft. ‘And this here is a cheekpiece for a soldier's helmet, while this other one is more likely either a buckle or a brooch.'

‘Where did you obtain these?'

‘Several pieces come from ploughboys. They turn them up in the field, and bring them to me in return for a shilling or two. The rest I received by way of sale or exchange from other interested gentlemen.'

‘It would appear you are the very man for me, then. I have to inquest a possible treasure trove and would value your opinion of it.'

‘What is it, coinage or plate?'

‘Silver objects, and thought to be from before the time of Cromwell's victory at Preston.'

‘Oh! Recent indeed! Nevertheless I shall not mind taking a look. The Carolean and Cromwellian periods have some points of interest, and in the case of plate there is a degree of rarity with so much having been melted down to pay for the war.'

I produced the apostle spoon and handed it to him.

‘This is from the supposed treasure. We believe it's an apostle spoon. What do you make of it?'

He took the spoon to the window and peered at it through a pair of spectacles.

Then he fetched a powerful magnifying glass, which he screwed into his eye to examine the four indentations along the spoon's shaft. Then he went to a shelf, took down an almanac and leafed through it until he found a table of letters of the alphabet, all in different typefaces. Running his forefinger down one column he found a match for the spoon's letter stamp, and closed the book with a snap.

‘Fifteen hundred and ninety six,' he said. ‘Reign of Queen Elizabeth. It is a spoon of true silver, of London manufacture, and London assayed it, which is all I can tell you from these marks. And, yes, it is of course an apostle spoon, with I fancy the figure of St John holding the poison cup. It is a fine piece, in its way. Have you any further examples from the hoard?'

‘Not on my person, but if you can come to Preston one day next week I will arrange to show you everything.'

‘If you can show me more pieces of this quality I shall come with pleasure. And I have some other business in Preston on Monday next. Will that suit you?'

 

Chapter Twenty-three

I
N PRESTON I
went directly back to the Lamb and Flag, and demanded that Houndsworth show me the Red Room which Moon had occupied on the previous Wednesday night.

‘If you like,' he said. ‘I don't know owt about him, mind. Was that his name – Moon?'

‘So now you remember that a man did lodge here on Wednesday as well as Jackson?'

Houndsworth led me outside, across the courtyard and through a door into the building on that side.

‘I didn't when I spoke to you, Sir. But after your visit, I found a note that Betty wrote me, wrapping some cash. She said it was for the let of the Red Room for one night. I were surprised because I'd not seen a sign of anyone about the place in the morning. I supposed he must have gone off early, before I rose to the surface meself.'

We climbed a bare wooden stair and along a passage with three bedrooms off it. He stopped at the second bedroom, opened the door and indicated with something of a flourish that I go in before him.

‘The Red Room, Mr Cragg, Sir.'

The bed hangings, dusty, cobwebbed and moth-eaten, were a rusty red, making it the only possible name for a room otherwise drab and colourless. I saw that someone had slept, or at least lain, on the bed rather than in it. An ancient upholstered chair, the stuffing frothing out at every corner, stood before the window.

‘Is that the chair's usual position?'

‘No, Sir. Happen the gentleman pulled it across to face the window so he could get the light.'

‘The light, Houndsworth? It was pitch dark outside. No, he moved the chair because he wanted to keep watch on the window opposite.'

On the table there was the ink-stand and writing materials, a glass and an empty wine bottle. There was no other sign of occupation.

‘Have you been in here since Wednesday? Tidied up?'

‘No. There's so much to do I haven't yet put it to rights.'

The curtains were open. I closed them except for a chink in the middle and put my eye to this. I had a clear view, as described by Betty Ransom, of the row of windows on the other side of the yard.

‘Which is the White Room?' I asked.

‘That's the one right opposite, Mr Cragg.'

*   *   *

Ten minutes later the Lorrises' maid was answering my ring on the door of Fidelis's lodgings, and telling me to go straight up as the doctor was in. I found him weighing chemicals and making notes in a ledger.

‘There were only two guests staying at the Lamb on Wednesday,' I announced. ‘One was Jackson and the other was spying on him. And guess what name the other went under.'

Fidelis looked up from his work.

‘Moon, I suppose,' he said.

Fidelis was a difficult man to surprise.

‘How did you know that?'

‘If he was spying on Jackson, who else? It's the only name we've got for his murderer.'

‘It is corroboration – that's what it is. We are making progress. But here is another more puzzling new fact.'

I passed the shoe to him.

‘I have established that it's the work of Thomas Truss, shoemaker of Liverpool.'

Fidelis now rose from his work table and motioned me to sit by the fire. He offered me his snuffbox and settled into the chair opposite.

‘I want to hear all the details,' he said.

I gave him a full account of my discussion over the shoe with Joseph Ransom, and we both sat meditating on the object itself, which Fidelis had placed on the mantel like a sculptural exhibit. After a while Fidelis reached it down.

‘Jackson didn't really fit the type Ransom described, did he? He was not a very “adventurous” dresser. Interesting too that the shoe was made in Liverpool while Jackson was from Bristol. How and when would he have bought it? Note, it is not new.'

‘It's easy to explain both points, Luke. It wasn't Jackson's shoe.'

He looked at me sharply, a look of doubt but with a scintilla of excitement. Fidelis enjoyed it when an apparent state of affairs was contradicted.

‘How could you possibly know it not to be Jackson's, Titus?'

‘Because before I went to Kirkham I took this shoe to the House of Correction, thinking I would reunite it with its partner. But there's no match, Luke. It fits the man's foot, but is differently made from the other shoe. I am therefore convinced that this shoe is an irrelevance, and we shall have to begin again our search for Jackson's missing footwear.'

There was another silence while Fidelis minutely examined the shoe, even removing the monogrammed insole, and replacing it when he found nothing beneath.

‘It isn't an irrelevance, Titus,' he said at last, handing it back to me.

‘Well it cannot be Jackson's. Surely you are not going to tell me he was wearing odd shoes.'

‘No, I accept it was not Jackson's.'

‘But his shoe is what we want. This one is of no interest.'

‘Apart from your discovery that Moon was at Jackson's inn on Wednesday night, this is perhaps the most relevant piece of evidence yet found in the case. It tells us something important about what happened when Jackson died. And it will help us catch Moon, I fancy. Keep it safe, its history is precious to you.'

I was used to these sudden predictions by my friend, though reckoned over time they were as often wrong as they were right.

‘Very well,' I said. ‘Tell me the story.'

Fidelis leaned forward in his chair, and his voice took on a certain dramatic quality as he began to speak.

‘Picture it, then. It was dark, the darkest part of the night under a cloudy sky, and no help from the moon. Jackson is killed and carried somehow to the Stone. It is a struggle to lift him. A shoe falls off Jackson's foot, but one of the killers also loses a shoe, perhaps as he clambers up onto the Stone. Once they have disposed Jackson's body in the way they want, suggesting – I don't know – some kind of ritual killing, they climb down and our man gropes around for his missing shoe – and in the dark picks up Jackson's, which he puts on and walks away. His own shoe has been kicked right under the Stone.'

I was pleased with all this. As well as his professed love of abstract puzzles and mental calculation my friend was a good story-teller too.

‘So, if your tale is true,' I said, ‘we have only to find the owner of this shoe, and we have one of the killers of Tybalt Jackson.'

‘It is true: it must be. Let's consider your next step. Thomas Truss is alive, did you not say?'

‘Retired, according to Ransom.'

‘Are you thinking of the same next step as I am?'

‘I am thinking I should make a trip to Liverpool. Will you come with me?'

‘I was afraid you wouldn't ask. It had better be soon.'

‘It had better be tomorrow.'

‘If so you must delay the hearing.'

‘I don't mind that. Furzey always says Saturday inquests come to bad decisions. We shall make new arrangements for Monday.'

*   *   *

We had arranged to travel to the funeral of Phillip Pimbo in the carriage of Burroughs, the cabinet-maker who was a member of the Corporation and our nearest neighbour on Cheapside. The drive to the church at Cadley was slow, as six or seven other carriages were making the journey at the same time. So we processed up Friar Gate and along Fylde Road in a procession, being continually held up by slower traffic – a mule train, a pair of bullock carts, a flock of driven geese.

‘Drive on! Drive through 'em!' shouted Lionel Burroughs to his driver after we had crept along for several minutes at the speed of the geese. ‘It is maddening that the slow movers do not wait to one side and let the fast traffic go by. Drive, man!'

The carriage lurched forward, scattering the geese to right and left and incurring the wrath of the gooseherd, who cursed and hurled his hat to the ground in fury as we passed. Burroughs put his head out of the window.

‘Scoundrel!' he roared.

‘Calm, Mr Burroughs, calm,' soothed his wife. ‘You know there is time enough for us to arrive at church. The coffin is in no such hurry as you are.'

Minnie Burroughs was an outwardly submissive woman whom Elizabeth assured me exerted powerful control over her hot-tempered husband. She now steered our talk towards a less aggravating matter, though one much debated in gatherings of Prestonians: Ephraim Grimshaw's new scheme to raise funds for the Guild by issuing a bond.

‘Mr Burroughs is so relieved that the Guild is not bankrupt and there will be money enough to pay for all,' declared his wife. ‘He is of the opinion that the Guild is worth no less than ten thousand pounds in money coming into our town.'

‘Yes, we shall profit all right,' said Burroughs himself. ‘We shall make Grimshaw's expense twofold, if he spends his money wisely in the first place.'

‘Mr Burroughs has heard,' went on Minnie, ‘that there will be no less than two masquerades. One will start the Guild and the other will be the Grand Finale. It will be an assembly such as we have never seen. Mr Burroughs expects more than four hundred tickets will be taken out.'

‘And
I
have heard,' said Elizabeth, ‘that in addition to our own players we are to have a visiting company from Dublin at the theatre. What have you heard, Titus?'

She gave me a nudge. I had heard little about the Guild's programme.

‘That there will be a lot of drunkenness and greedy trencher-work, if history is any guide. But Grimshaw is not in the clear just yet. We know little of raising money with bonds. What if the bonds fail to sell?'

Burroughs snorted.

‘They've been using them in London for years. They'll do the job.'

‘Let us hope so,' I said.

The funeral was well-attended, but the mourning was purely formal, for the deceased had had few close friends and his only relative, his mother, was out of her mind. She called out several times during the service, and on the way to the grave kept asking whose funeral this was, and then claiming it was hers.

‘Are all of you going to bury me now? Are you going to put me in the ground?'

Walking straight-backed in support by Mrs Pimbo's side, Ruth Peel allowed the woman to rave, her own face showing the expressionless serenity of classical marble.

Afterwards the Burgesses and other town notables at the funeral were invited to Cadley Place. As the weather continued warm, tables had been set up on the lawn at the rear of the house with wine, tea and cakes served. I was aware that many of the guests in their groups must have been discussing, not Pimbo's dreadful death, but the more recent one of the stranger Tybalt Jackson, who had made such an impression at Pimbo's inquest, and speculating on why he had been killed. I heard the name Zadok Moon pronounced more than once in this connection. Murder and fraud were now inseparably entwined into that name, and these words touched the two fears planted deepest in the Preston Burgesses' heart: for his life, and for his cash.