Текст книги "The Bedlam Detective"

Автор книги: Stephen Gallagher

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BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING WAS TAKEN IN THE BAR, BECAUSE the dining room was in use. The true prophets, those senior detective officers with the city’s glamour on them, had arrived to take over.

Sebastian sat behind his kippers at a corner table and watched all the comings and goings with mixed feelings. The tall, straight detectives in their immaculate overcoats and bowler hats were attended by a squad of clerks and sergeants that ran ahead of and around them. Messages were flying, and there were scenes to be visited. Despite the tragedy at the heart of it all, he felt a certain nostalgia. Such had been his life, once.

After that he went up to his room and prepared himself to go out. This time, he found his belongings undisturbed. There was little he could do to protect himself against further searches, whether by curious staff or by someone with a more sinister motive, other than to ensure that he kept his notebook and valuables about his person. An intruder would find nothing of advantage in his shaving kit or linen.

He’d cleaned up his own boots, knowing that he could expect little in the way of extra service under the circumstances. He stowed his letters of authority in one pocket, his copy of Sir Owain’s book in another.

An Amazonian expedition had taken place. That was beyond doubt. And that it had met with disaster could not be doubted either. But as he’d told Stephen Reed, no true or satisfactory account of that disaster had ever been given.

Lancaster had funded the trip himself, with the intended purpose of taking celestial measurements from one of several key points around the globe. The measurements were needed to support his patented system for aiming large guns by the stars. He had set off into the jungle with vehicles, mules, experts, porters, and an enormous caravan of instruments and supplies. He’d returned with none of them. Just himself, and one other survivor. The survivor had suffered injuries and a level of delirium that had left him permanently hospitalized.

As a consequence, Sir Owain’s Royal Society lecture, in which all was to be revealed in detail, had attracted wide attention. The promise of sensational revelations, with no hint as to what those revelations might be, had stoked the public’s interest. The original meeting-hall venue had been ditched in favor of the Queen’s Hall in Langham Place, a concert theater of much greater capacity. Several newspapers requested advance interviews, but were turned down. Sir Owain’s book was scheduled for publication within a matter of weeks, but no page proofs or early copies could be located.

Even the society’s president had known nothing of what was to come. Following his introduction, Owain Lancaster had begun with a warning: that what followed might be hard to believe, but was true nonetheless. For much of it, he could offer no evidence beyond his own observations. His public testimony was underwritten by his private grief. He owed it to the dead to tell the whole truth.

The whole truth, as he told it, was that the expedition had been wrecked by an early accident on the river that was carrying them downstream, after which the party’s survivors had been stalked by monsters. The monsters rarely showed themselves and were mainly known from the evidence of their attacks. Of all the party, Sir Owain was the only one who saw them fully with his own eyes. They included a serpent that tried to wreck the rescue boat that was carrying him home.

The first ten minutes of Sir Owain’s talk were received in silence. The next five played to a growing rumble of conversation among the rows. His lantern slides were met with loud heckling and open derision, and the rest of his words went unheard; most of the audience was on its feet by then, and the ushers struggled to keep any kind of order. Some object was thrown, and something close to a riot followed. The speaker persisted and had to be stopped. Sir Owain was hurried from the building by a service door. His lantern slides, which featured some photographs but were mostly artists’ realizations of the monsters made under Sir Owain’s direction, were stolen during the upset.

But they were no loss. Those same images appeared as plates in the published account, which went on sale shortly after. Its publishers, who’d been hovering over a decision to withdraw the book, found themselves with a runaway success.

They were half embarrassed, half elated; they did their best to follow a line that allowed them to keep both their dignity and their profits. And so, as Sir Owain suffered public opprobrium and the censure of the society and withdrew to his West Country estate, they continued to sell copies of “this remarkable document, the subject of so much lively and continuing debate.”

Stalked by monsters, torn by beasts. And an estate on which, it now seemed, people vanished and young girls of a certain age and development could not play in safety.

As Sebastian’s predecessor had first noted, there seemed to be something more than coincidental misfortune at work here.

WHEN SEBASTIAN stepped out into the main street, he could see that new activity had begun around the assembly rooms. Locals were again gathering outside. A hearse wagon and two undertakers’ men waited by the doors. Becoming aware of two women passing behind him, Sebastian tipped his hat to them; they didn’t even notice. He heard one telling the other that the parents had arrived and had gone in with the police. The women went on to join the assembly room crowd, and Sebastian turned away.

The grief of the parents would be a hard sight to bear. He understood that there was a low point in any journey such as theirs. Some called it the hour of despair; others, the suicide hour. The notion was that if one could pass through it, then hope would begin. The hour could be deferred, or it could be ignored for a while. But if life were to continue, it could not be avoided. How did one pass through a loss so profound? He couldn’t begin to imagine it.

The town’s one-roomed museum and library was on a steep little street that led down to the harbor. It was a humble whitewashed building with a surprisingly grand door. There was an imposing house above it, and less imposing houses below.

Sebastian tried the door. It was unlocked, so he went inside.

It was historical exhibition and reading room combined. Arnmouth’s modest history was covered by six glass cases of coins and other objects, some Roman stones, and a dozen or more framed oil paintings of local estates. The farther part of the room featured two long tables with eight chairs to each. Beyond them was a counter, behind which was a woman. She seemed surprised by his presence.

Raising her voice to reach him, she said, “I don’t open until nine thirty.”

Sebastian glanced back. “Your door isn’t locked,” he said.

“I don’t need to keep it locked,” she said. “Everybody knows I don’t open until nine thirty. What do you want?”

He’d reached the counter now. The woman had iron-gray hair, pinned up. She wore a high-collared blouse and she held herself straight. Despite his transgression, she didn’t seem ready to order him out, and so he decided to press his luck.

Sebastian said, “Do you keep a local newspaper?”

“In the racks,” she said, “over there.” And she pointed to a frame where three or four broadsheets hung from rods, café-style. “Leave it out on the table when you’re finished.”

Sebastian glanced briefly and said, “I meant old newspapers. Whichever volume might have the story of Grace Eccles and Evangeline Bancroft.”

The woman’s manner seemed to chill, and her face became set.

“What story would that be?” she said.

“About the time where they were lost on the moors,” he said. “I understand that it was a good few years ago.”

“I’m afraid all those issues are at the bindery.”

“Can you check that for me?”

Her face betrayed nothing.

“I don’t need to,” she said.

“Perhaps I’ll talk to Miss Eccles, then. Can you tell me where to find her?”

“I don’t advise it.”

“All the same, I’d like to.”

“Grace took over her father’s cottage on the Lancaster estate. You can try talking to her, but I doubt she’ll have much to say to you.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“No,” she said, “I can’t.” And she walked off into an inner room behind the counter, leaving him alone.

HE GOT back to the Sun Inn at five minutes before ten. Sir Owain’s car was already waiting, its engine idling and Sir Owain’s chauffeur behind the wheel. When the driver saw Sebastian, he hopped out and had the passenger cab door open by the time he reached it. There was no one else in the car.

“Thank you,” Sebastian said, and climbed aboard. He settled back into the buttoned leather seat as the driver returned to his place.

Sebastian tried to look as if he were used to this. But of course, he wasn’t. The landaulet was a rich man’s transport, and Sebastian was not a rich man. It was, in essence, the coachwork of the finest horse carriage built onto a heavy motor chassis. The passenger rode in comfort while the driver faced the elements behind the engine, bundled up in leather and goggles with just a short windshield for protection.

But to drive one was a mark of prestige for any servant. And this man knew it. Small boys stopped to watch as the car swung around in the street and they headed out of town, along the road that Sebastian had come in by. Instead of crossing the river to the station, they turned inland.

Sebastian leaned forward and knocked on the glass that separated him from the driver. He had to knock again, and harder, before he was heard.

The driver unhooked a catch, and the window cracked open an inch or two. The wind roared through the gap. The driver cocked his head toward it, without taking his eyes off the road.

Sebastian raised his voice and half-shouted, “Where’s the cottage that Grace Eccles lives in? Is it on this road?”

The driver shook his head. Then said, “It’s over toward the river.”

“Can we reach it by car?”

“Not without making you late. Sir Owain’s waiting.”

“Sir Owain can wait a while longer. I want to visit her first.”

The road hit a patch of bad repair, and Sebastian did nothing to gain the driver’s favor by having distracted him so that he failed to avoid the worst of it.

When they were done bumping, the driver said, “I can’t do that, sir. I take my instructions from my employer.”

Watching the man’s gloved hands on the wheel, Sebastian said, “And do those instructions include rummaging through the hotel rooms of his visitors?”

He saw the driver’s grip tighten for just a moment, which gave him his answer before the man said, “I have no idea what you can mean by that, sir.”

“Never mind,” Sebastian said. “Today your employer answers to me. So you’ll take me first to Grace’s cottage, please.”

AS THEY FOLLOWED THE COURSE OF THE RIVER INLAND, THE estuary plain was wide and sandy. But the sand gradually turned to a mixture of sand and mud, that in turn grew a surface of moss and vegetable scum, that in turn became wide open fields where animals grazed. On a raised bank overlooking these flats, they passed a row of upturned boats and dinghies like the shells of sleeping turtles.

After another mile or so, a bare track led to an open place by the water. At the end of the track was a collection of mismatched wooden buildings, at the heart of which stood a ramshackle stone cottage. The roofs of the buildings had all been repaired with tarpaper. There was a straw-covered yard before the cottage and beyond the yard, a gate in a rail fence led out into open paddock and grazing land. This was poor land, low-lying and liable to flood.

As they were approaching, Sebastian thought that he saw a figure flit between two of the buildings. The track was growing rougher, and the driver stopped the car with at least a dozen or more yards still to go.

He clearly didn’t expect to be staying here for long. He kept the engine running as he got out to open Sebastian’s door.

As Sebastian stepped down, the driver said, “You should know this is a waste of your time.”

“How so?” Sebastian said, noting the presence of horses far off in the paddock, right down by the water.

“Grace Eccles can be a bit wild. I’m telling you, she’s known for it.”

The driver closed the car door behind him. Sebastian started toward the buildings alone.

Before he’d taken more than a few strides, a young woman came out. She wore a full skirt and a man’s jacket buttoned up tight, and her hair was so long and unkempt that it seemed so by intent rather than neglect.

Grace Eccles, he assumed. She had a rock in her hand.

She said, “This is my house. You come no closer.”

Sebastian stopped.

“How close would be acceptable?” he said.

“I prefer you fuck off and far away, sir, and here’s the proof of it.”

He might have been shocked by her language, had she given him the chance to react. But she did not.

It was a good throw, overarm and with force in it. And accurate, too. It would have laid him out flat if he hadn’t turned side-on and dodged it. It missed his head by a whisker. It missed the driver by more, but went on to smash through the Daimler’s side window like a marble fist.

Whereupon the driver emitted a loud oath that was almost as foul as her own and scrambled to get back to the wheel of his vehicle. He crashed the gears in his haste to reverse up the track to a place of greater safety; and as the wheels spun and the Daimler slid around in its retreat, Sebastian remembered to look toward Grace Eccles in case there might be another rock coming.

But she was watching the car’s departure with visible satisfaction.

Sebastian said, “That was uncalled for.”

“Whatever you say,” Grace Eccles replied. “How many motorcars can you muster? I’ve no end of stones.”

With the aim of catching her unawares, Sebastian said, “I’m here on serious business. Two young girls were found dead on the estate yesterday.”

She showed no particular reaction. She kept on looking at the car for a while, and then she looked at him.

“What’s that to me?” she said.

“I thought you might be concerned to hear it.”

She did no more than shrug.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask.”

Sebastian said, “What happened to you and Evangeline Bancroft? And why will no one speak of it?”

“I know why you’re here,” she said, ignoring his question. “Tell him I don’t care who he sends. This was my father’s house, and now it’s mine. I’ve a piece of paper that a judge has looked at, and here I stay.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then where’s the point in you standing there and listening to me?”

She turned her back on him, walked across the yard and into her house, and slammed the door.

In that moment it was as if she’d walked out of the world completely; the house sat like a dead thing, abandoned and unlived in.

Sebastian waited.

Then he turned away and walked up the track to the car. The driver was beside it, pulling glass out of the door frame and examining his coachwork for further damage.

As Sebastian drew close, the driver looked up angrily and said, “How stupid was that? As if I didn’t warn you.”

“I know,” Sebastian said. “Forgive me. I never listen.”

He swept broken glass from the leather seat, and they continued their journey. The remainder of it was undertaken in silence—or as close to silence as could be achieved, save for the noise of the car’s engine and the wind that whistled in through the broken window.

The car might be damaged. But not so damaged, Sebastian thought, as the young woman who’d thrown the rock at it.

OWAIN LANCASTER had been born the son of a Welsh corn merchant. As a young man he’d been sent away to study the law in Manchester, but an interest in science and engineering had prevailed, particularly in its application to long-range artillery. He’d sold the rights to his first arms patent, an improved breech-sliding mechanism for field guns, for thirty pounds. After seeing how much money it made for its new title holders, he never signed away another.

He’d risen to own foundries and factories and a shipyard, and had bought Arnside Hall and its estate from a bankrupt family some twenty-five years before. He’d meant it for a summer retreat and had spent a considerable amount on rebuilding the house and installing the most modern conveniences: ducted heating, electricity from its own plant, the first telephone in the county. Now he’d sold his London house and lived here all the time.

Sir Owain’s entire life had been material proof of the value of science, a triumph of the rational. It had brought him a fortune, a fellowship in the Royal Society, and a reputation that, with a single publication, he’d managed to destroy almost overnight.

Where insanity threatened a fortune, the Lord Chancellor’s Visitor in Lunacy was obliged to intercede. Distant relatives, alarmed at the endangerment of riches they might someday hope to share in, had written to the Lord Chancellor’s office raising questions over Sir Owain’s ability to manage his affairs. Their letter had been passed to Sir James, whose first move had been to send his man—Sebastian’s predecessor, now retired—to investigate and report.

The drive ascended through farmland to grouse moor, and then from grouse moor to managed forest. Its last mile was up a narrowing valley, winding and switching until Arnside Hall came into view at the top of it.

It was a strange building. Half doll’s house, half castle, perched atop an enormous rockery where a waterfall spilled down to a trout lake below. Sebastian looked up at it through the Daimler’s good window and felt something between a chill and a thrill. After selling off his business interests at loss-making prices, Sir Owain had retreated here to live off his patents. As the income from these began to decline, his inventions superseded by newer technologies, he’d let estate staff go and allowed the building and its grounds to deteriorate.

Rich man’s retreat or madman’s hideaway?

Soon, Sebastian hoped to know.

ORIGINALLY, THE HOUSE HAD BEEN A LODGE. IT HAD BEEN EXPANDED by more than one architect into something of a visual mishmash, its roofline a forest of chimneys and gables of different designs. It had bowed windows and Gothic windows and a bit of Tudor half-timbering thrown in here and there, with the final entry into the main courtyard being achieved through an archway that could have been lifted intact from a cathedral apse.

The courtyard itself was like the setting for an opera, with windows, outlooks, and balconies at every level and of every imaginable character. Here, with a carriage turn before it, was the main door of the house.

On the steps to the main doors, Sir Owain Lancaster waited to meet the car. As before, he was not alone. Behind him, lurking in the background like a diffident Iago, came Dr. Hubert Sibley.

The car stopped before the entranceway. The driver exchanged a few words with his employer, presumably to account for the damage to his vehicle, before returning to it and opening the door for Sebastian to step out.

Sir Owain did not offer his hand.

He said, “Permit me a grim smile at the irony of my position. I hold honors from three universities. My patents have amassed fortunes and my factories supply the armies of the world. But my fate and future happiness now lie in the hands of the watchdog to the Lord Chancellor’s Visitor in Lunacy.”

“There’s nothing about my presence that should make you feel threatened,” Sebastian said. “My function here is only to observe and advise.”

“And yet my liberty will depend on the advice that you give.”

“Think less of it as a matter of liberty, and more a matter of your well-being.”

“It’s very hard not to think about liberty when you face the prospect of losing it.”

With the pleasantries dispensed with, Sir Owain led the way inside.

The entrance hallway had a stone-flagged floor with a rug on it and light oak paneling on its walls. A wide stairway led to a gallery above.

On the short walk to Sir Owain’s study they passed a long glass case containing a scale model of a warship, the original of which had been built in one of Sir Owain’s yards. The air inside the house was colder than the air outside and had a musty odor. Sebastian saw no sign of any staff.

Sir Owain’s study was dominated by a large kneehole desk with a captain’s chair behind it. On the desk were a typewriting machine and a binocular microscope in brass. There was a wall of books, with a set of green baize steps for reaching the upper shelves.

Sebastian said, “Do you understand why it’s necessary for me to be here?”

Inviting Sebastian to sit while seating himself in the captain’s chair, Sir Owain said, “I understand that any man with the taint of madness and a fortune is fair game for the Masters of Lunacy. As little as fifty pounds a year or a thousand in the bank will get their attention.”

“You merely need to convince Sir James that you are competent to remain in charge of your own affairs.”

“Convince him? Or convince you?”

Sebastian waited.

Sir Owain went on, “Given that I must, I believe that I can. Doctor Sibley, here, is my constant companion and the guarantor of my sanity.”

By now, Dr. Hubert Sibley had joined Sir Owain behind the desk. He remained standing, more like a valet than a medical man.

Sebastian looked at Sir Owain again and said, “So do you consider yourself insane?”

“No,” Sir Owain said. “But I can understand why others might. Is that in itself not some kind of proof?”

Dr. Sibley then spoke up and said, “I have prepared you a full report of my observations and a fair copy of Sir Owain’s treatment diary.”

Sir Owain looked at him, and Sibley nodded. Then Sir Owain opened a desk drawer and took out a folder of typewritten papers, tied with a ribbon. He placed the folder on the desk and slid it toward Sebastian.

“My life is in these pages,” he said. “There is no part of it that is not subject to Doctor Sibley’s supervision. Whether it’s my health or my business or the management of the estate.”

“No part of it at all?”

“None.”

Sebastian was finding that Sibley’s presence made him vaguely uncomfortable. Not so much a man, more a slimy shadow. Hanging around in the corner like an undertaker’s mute.

He looked at the man and said, “Where are you living, Doctor?”

“I live here at the Hall,” Sibley replied, “with Sir Owain. Constant companion means exactly that.”

“I can’t help observing that to ensure Sir Owain’s liberty you seem to have given up your own.”

“I am well rewarded. The work is light and the life is pleasant. I believe you’ll find that our arrangement is the equal of any more oppressive or restrictive regime, and offers a humane and enlightened alternative.”

“In other words … as long as you’re steering Sir Owain and whispering in his ear, I should recommend against any form of asylum.”

“Sir Owain is not mad,” Dr. Sibley said.

“What is he, then?”

Sir Owain spoke up for himself. “I speak my mind, I say what I see, and for reasons of their own some choose to call me mad because of it. The mere whiff of the word around a rich man brings the Masters of Lunacy running. Lawyers and parasites with no other interest than to get control of a man’s fortune and squander it. They are a plague, and it’s the Lord Chancellor’s Visitor who moves ahead of them and marks the foreheads of the doomed.”

At that point he realized that Sibley was giving him a warning look.

“Is one possible opinion,” Sir Owain amended.

“You can hold whatever opinion you wish,” Sebastian said, and he reached for the folder on the desk. “Believe me. I have a duty to be impartial, and my employer is a fair man. I will read this report. I shall pass along the treatment diary for someone more medically qualified to assess. And I shall establish whether this live-in arrangement is a genuine form of care or a deliberate ploy to stave off the appropriate legal process.”

Dr. Sibley said, “How can we convince you?”

“Don’t try to convince me. Just conduct yourselves as you normally would. Sir Owain.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been reading your book.”

A new and subtle tension seemed to enter the room.

“As have many,” Sir Owain said with care.

“A well-wrought piece of fiction,” Sebastian suggested, and waited to see Sir Owain’s response.

Sir Owain could not help it. He looked at his doctor. His doctor said nothing, but the implication hung there. I can’t prompt you. Be careful.

“If you say so,” Sir Owain said.

“What do you say, Sir Owain?” Sebastian pressed. “Do you still insist on it as an honest account of your Amazon adventure? Is it a faithful memorial to those who failed to return?”

Sir Owain looked again at the doctor, who now was looking at the floor as if to show that any response was Sir Owain’s, and Sir Owain’s alone.

Sebastian went on, “Just between us. In this room. Do you still hold it to be the truth? Or is it, as so many say, a miscalculated hoax that has caused the loss of your position and earned you the scorn of your peers?”

Dr. Sibley could keep his silence no longer.

“This is unfair,” he said.

“I know it, Doctor Sibley,” Sebastian said. “It’s not a choice that I’d care to be faced with. Stick to my story and be deemed insane, or abandon it and stand revealed as a fraud.”

“And whatever I answer,” Sir Owain said, “you’ll have the option of calling it a response that I learned for the occasion, to achieve an end.”

“And so we go round and round.”

“If a man can feign sanity to perfection, is he not therefore sane?”

“Why did you view the bodies of those dead girls?”

The abrupt change of tack threw Sir Owain for a moment, as Sebastian had meant it to.

He floundered for a moment and then said, “They were found on my land. And I wished to offer my help.”

“Ah, yes. Your theory. Torn by beasts.” From the deep pocket inside his coat, Sebastian took his copy of Sir Owain’s book and searched for the page that he’d located and marked. “You must be aware that the exact same phrase occurs here in your mendacious memoir.”

“It’s but a phrase, Mister Becker,” Sir Owain said. “You saw the condition of those children. Tell me that the wording is anything other than accurate.”

Sebastian regarded him for a few moments.

Then he closed the book.

“Please call your car for me,” he said, and rose to his feet.

Sir Owain seemed bewildered.

“Is that it?” he said. “What happens now?”

“I’ll be in the area for a day or two. Making my inquiries. You’ll hear from me again.”

“When will we know the decision?”

“That, I cannot say. The decision won’t be mine to make.”

HE DECLINED a tour of the house. He’d seen a sufficient number of great houses to know that the gentry were equally indifferent to magnificence and squalor, and that their homes were no guide to anything. He’d once reported on a marquis who kept a pig in his dining room, and Sir James had been happy to sign him off.

As the car was once more drawing up in front of the building, Sir Owain said, “Who will pay for my broken window glass?”

Sebastian said, “I think you will.”

“You speak sharply to me,” Sir Owain complained. “In a way I do not believe I deserve. But how can I respond in kind to a man who has power over my liberty?”

“If I seem sharp, sir, then I apologize. I do not mean to be. You can be assured that my only interest is in the facts behind the matter.”

“Then,” Sir Owain said, phrasing his courtesy in such a way as to leave no doubt that he was sorely aggrieved by the obligation, “I should support your discovery of the facts in full. My car and driver are at your disposal during your stay. Wherever you may wish to go. Just telephone the house and I’ll send them out.”