The Durham deception

Durham Gaol

‘Why has she been brought here? Tell me. I demand to know.’

Tom was beside himself. The sweat was standing out on his forehead and he could not stay still for an instant. He wanted to lash out at something or someone. But the police superintendent standing on the opposite side of the desk kept a stolid calm.

‘It is for her own safety, sir. Will you sit down?’

‘Safety! In a gaol!’

‘You might be surprised, Mr Ansell, but this place behind us is quite salubrious compared to the police-house in Court Lane. We are not adapted for accommodating people of, er, quality in the station-house. And we would have drawn more attention taking your wife there than we did by bringing her here. She is quite comfortable. She will not have to mix with any of the other inmates, yet. I can recognize a lady when I see one. I ask again, sir, will you sit down?’

‘Why should I sit down?’

‘Then I can sit too.’

‘All right,’ said Tom, aware that he was only harming his – or rather Helen’s – cause by his confusion and anger. ‘I must apologize, Superintendent…?’

‘Harcourt, sir, Frank Harcourt.’

Tom and Superintendent Harcourt were standing in a plainly furnished office in the Crown Courts behind which stood Durham Gaol. Tom had a view of the prison through a grimy window. There was a vase of wilted flowers on the window ledge. The building beyond was bulky and formidable and somewhere inside it, only a hundred yards distant, his wife was confined. It was almost impossible to believe. Tom took a deep breath and sat on a hard chair. His heart was beating hard, as it had been ever since the message had arrived at Miss Howlett’s house in South Bailey that a Mrs Ansell was in the custody of the police. Luckily, the servant had brought the message straight to Tom.

Without telling Aunt Julia or anyone else, without putting on his coat, he ran to the police-house in Court Lane, only to be informed that he should apply to the County Court instead. He gathered no more than that Helen had been apprehended near a dead body which had been discovered in the woods below the cathedral. Tom arrived at the County Court, sweating and furious and fearful. Dashing into the spacious hallway and spotting a superintendent’s uniform he had buttonholed the man. By chance he had encountered the very one who could tell him what was happening.

Now Frank Harcourt was settling himself on the far side of the desk and toying with an empty pen holder and a blotter. He picked up a paperweight and looked at it curiously.

‘Not my office,’ he explained. He eventually found a notepad and a pencil in a drawer. ‘A few preliminaries, if you don’t mind. You are Mr Thomas Ansell?’

Tom nodded.

‘And your profession, sir?’

‘I am a solicitor, with a London firm. Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie of Furnival Street.’

‘Is that L-I-E?’

‘With a Y.’

Harcourt bent over the notepad and laboriously wrote all this down, pressing hard on the paper. He stuck out his tongue as he wrote and his face turned more ruddy. The pencil point broke and a couple of minutes passed while Harcourt rummaged in his clothing. He produced a little clasp knife which he snapped open with a grunt of satisfaction. He shaved the tip of the pencil until a decent length of lead was showing. He gave his whole attention to the job. To avoid gazing out of the window and seeing the prison beyond, Tom stared round the room. The walls were bare apart from a framed sampler that bore the embroidered legend: ‘Blessed Are They That Hunger And Thirst After Righteousness.’

‘And your wife, Mr Ansell?’ continued Harcourt, his sharpened pencil poised again. ‘She is called Helen?’

‘Yes. But she must have told you so already.’

‘She did. You are visiting Durham on legal business?’

‘Helen’s aunt lives here. We are staying with her for a few days. That is, with Miss Julia Howlett in the South Bailey.’

If the name meant anything to Superintendent Harcourt he didn’t show it. He said, ‘I gather your wife knew the deceased.’

‘This may sound absurd, Superintendent, but then the whole thing is absurd. I do not even know who is dead.’

‘You don’t know who is dead, Mr Ansell? Well, well. The deceased is a gentleman who has caused a certain stir in this town… his name is… or was, I should say… Eustace Flask.’

‘Oh God! How did he die?’

‘He was murdered. Stabbed, it seems. A vicious blow to the neck with a sharp knife. May I take it from your response that you were also familiar with Mr Flask?’

‘Plenty of people knew him, I imagine,’ said Tom, cautiously.

‘As a matter of fact, I knew him myself,’ said Harcourt. ‘A glancing acquaintance only, mind.’

‘But he disappeared last night.’

‘Last night? Ah, you are referring to the performance at the Assembly Rooms when Mr Flask was invited to enter the magician’s booth.’

‘If you were there then you must have seen him vanish too.’

‘That was a trick, Mr Ansell.’

‘But Flask never reappeared.’

‘All part of the act, I suppose,’ said Harcourt.

‘Shouldn’t you be talking to the performers on stage, talking to Major Marmont for example, to find out exactly what happened afterwards? Flask could have died last night.’

‘The body was still warm, the blood was still flowing, when your wife found him this morning. He had only just been killed.’

Tom noted that the policeman was not implying that it was Helen who had killed Flask.

‘So he disappeared temporarily and then popped up again. Someone must have seen him in the in-between.’

‘No doubt,’ said Harcourt. ‘We will talk to the magician and others but in our own good time, Mr Ansell. We must talk to your wife first and find out what she was doing with the deceased.’

‘She wasn’t doing anything with him. She had the bad luck to find his body, that is all. You have as much as said so.’

‘Possibly, sir, possibly. But caution is the watchword in these affairs. You are lucky because I was actually on the scene of the murder.’

‘You saw it?’ said Tom, not understanding.

‘I mean that I arrived shortly afterwards, happening to be in the neighbourhood by chance. Fortunately, several of my men were also in the area. Tell me, Mr Ansell, did your wife ever express an opinion of Mr Eustace Flask?’

Helen had said several things about Flask, all of them unfavourable, so Tom cast around for a neutral way to answer. He certainly wanted to avoid any hint that she had come to Durham with the specific intention of persuading her aunt Howlett away from her infatuation with the medium. He saw Frank Harcourt looking at him, tapping the end of the pencil against his mouth. There was a shrewdness in the policeman’s eyes but also something else there which Tom couldn’t quite place.

‘Neither of us has much time for mediums and seances and that sort of thing,’ said Tom eventually. ‘We had, both of us, met Mr Flask once – at her aunt’s house as it happens.’

There was a double tap on the door and Harcourt went to answer it. A police constable stood outside. Without any preamble, he launched into an urgent explanation. The man’s accent was so broad that Tom had difficulty following him but, as far as he could gather, something had occurred which required the Superintendent’s immediate attention, something to do with the delivery of a parcel.

Harcourt came back. He said, ‘You may see your wife if you wish, Mr Ansell. There has been a development in the case.’

‘What is it?’

‘I am not at liberty to say. But if you come with me now I shall direct a warder to take you to Mrs Ansell.’

The Crown Court and the prison occupied the same site. Superintendent Harcourt led Tom down some stairs and along increasingly drab passageways until they emerged into a small high-walled yard. He rapped on an iron-barred door on the far side and, when a wooden panel slid back, grunted a few words to the whiskered face on the other side. There was the clank of keys from within.

‘I’ll leave you with Perkins, Mr Ansell. You are in good hands.’

Tom was thinking not of himself but of poor Helen as the warder escorted him across a chilly vestibule occupied only by a desk, chair and filing cabinet. Half a dozen flat blue caps were hanging from a row of pegs. Perkins took a key from the great bunch which dangled at his belt and, without looking to check whether he had the right one, unlocked another reinforced door. Beyond this was a barred gate which led directly to one of the prison wings. There was same instinctive procedure with the keys. Without saying a word, the warder beckoned Tom to follow him up a spiral metal staircase to the left of the gate and they climbed to the second tier of the building. A row of doors opened off a narrow walkway, echoed by a similar arrangement on the other side.

It was curiously silent, with no sound apart from the thud of the men’s feet. There was an acrid smell, a mixture of food and carbolic and human waste. Perkins halted at the seventh or eight door. This time the warder had to search for a specific key. When he found it, he used it to tap on the door to alert the occupant, before turning the key and swinging open the door in a single smooth action.

Helen was sitting on a bench against the far wall. Her head was bent in concentration and she was scribbling in a notebook. She looked up, blinking.

‘Tom! It’s you.’

‘Helen. You’re all right?’

‘Of course I am all right.’

‘What are you doing?’ said Tom. It was a stupid question but other words failed him. He was standing just inside the cell door.

‘’Fraid I’ll have to lock you in, sir,’ said Perkins, making a show of drawing a pocket-watch from his uniform jacket and consulting it. ‘I will wait outside on the landing. I can give you ten minutes.’

‘I am sure you can give us longer than that,’ said Helen. She glanced at Tom and surreptitiously rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.

Tom gave the man half a sovereign. The coin disappeared like magic.

‘Half an hour, sir, no longer,’ said Perkins. He shut the door and turned the key.

Helen said, ‘Well, Tom, in answer to your question I am writing down the details of my surroundings. An author never knows when these things will come in useful. I might send one of my characters to gaol at some point and, when I do, I will need to know what the inside of a cell looks like.’

Helen spoke more rapidly than usual. Tom noticed that there was some blood on her dress. She snapped the notebook shut – it was her diary, he saw – and placed it neatly beside her. She got up from the bench, came to him and he put his arms around her.

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ he said at last. ‘You are so calm, so brave. Oh Helen!’

‘Now, Tom. Do not be foolish. This is all a silly mistake. I shall be out of here very soon. After all, you have been in the same plight yourself.’

It was true. The previous year Tom had spent an unhappy night in a cell in the county gaol in Salisbury when he too had fallen under suspicion for a crime he did not commit. Helen had visited him in that place, just as he was now visiting her in this one. Tom wondered if there was some malign or mischievous fate subjecting each of them to a parallel experience of prison.

Tom released his wife and took his first careful look at the cell. With its curved ceiling, it was like a vault or the interior of a compartment in a train carriage. The flaking walls were whitewashed. A few feet above the bed there was an unglazed and barred window which allowed in small quantities of light and air. At the moment a stray draught was bringing in the ghost of summer to the cell. In the winter it would be bitterly cold. Apart from the bed, the only covering for which was a coarse blanket, there was a wooden chair and a three-legged stand for a washbasin, a ewer of water and a thick glass tumbler. A bucket was lodged under the bed.

Helen had gone back to sit on the bed. She saw Tom looking round.

‘As you can see, there is not much to note down. Not much to distract the mind or lift the spirits. Thank goodness I had my diary tucked away. They didn’t have a searcher to hand and so they did not discover my diary.’

‘A searcher?’ said Tom.

‘A woman who is employed to search female suspects. I already have a grasp of the police jargon, you see. I must say I will be glad to get out of here. I need to change my clothes.’

She glanced at the bloodstains on her dress. She looked at her hands. She shuddered.

‘I must have touched him. I got too close to the… to the body. I have washed my hands several times over but I have not been able to get my clothes laundered in this place.’

She gave an odd laugh. Tom came to sit beside her and felt the bed give under their weight. He put his arm round her. After a while, he asked Helen to tell him what had happened. Did she want to talk about it? How had she come to find Eustace Flask?

As Tom knew, she had gone out that morning to look at the shops – a rather un-Helen-like thing to do but she needed to get away from Aunt Julia who was preoccupied with the fate of Eustace Flask after his disappearance at the Assembly Rooms. Every few minutes over breakfast it was, ‘I wonder what’s become of dear Mr Flask?’ or ‘I do hope he’s all right’ or ‘Do you think we should tell the authorities?’ Tom noticed that even Septimus Sheridan’s patience was wearing thin. He excused himself to go and look at the notes on the Lucknow Dagger which Sebastian Marmont had written up for him, and to try to make sense of a rambling, disjointed narrative.

Helen described how she had walked to the Market Place and then lingered over the shop windows in Silver Street. It was a fine morning and she wanted to stretch her legs. She walked down the cobbled slope to Framwellgate Bridge, across which they had driven on their arrival in Durham. She paused and looked casually down at the river. Below her was the path where she and Tom had strolled the previous day. She walked to the far side of the bridge, the western end. There was a similar riverside path running below here.

She gave a start to see below the gentleman they had encountered yesterday, the one who had claimed to be returning her handkerchief. It was him, she was sure of it. The same loping stride, the same shabby coat. Perhaps, she thought, he goes up and down the river paths in search of discarded handkerchiefs.

But Helen was much more surprised, even shocked, to see a similarly tall figure emerge from the shadow of the bridge and move off in the same direction keeping the castle and cathedral to his left. There was no doubt in her mind about his identity. That stride which was mincing rather than loping, the rather fine attire, the pale red hair escaping from under his hat. It was Eustace Flask.

Her first reaction was, oddly, disappointment. So it was a trick after all, he hadn’t been made to disappear in the Perseus Cabinet. Her next was, Aunt Julia will be relieved that he is back. Then curiosity got the better of her. What exactly had happened last night? How had Flask been made to disappear? Why, come to that, had he now chosen to reappear? Where was he going?

Before she was really aware of what she was doing Helen Ansell found herself descending the steep stone steps leading from Framwellgate Bridge down to the river level. By the time she reached the path Eustace Flask was in the far distance. Helen couldn’t bring herself to shout or run after him. She set off at a regular pace, now thinking better of the idea of accosting Flask and quizzing him. What business was it of hers? To talk to the medium would give him the idea she was somehow interested in his welfare, whereas she wanted nothing more than that he should stop fleecing her aunt and leave Durham. There were other walkers on the riverbank, and a group of boys was fishing in the dirty water with makeshift rods and lines. She paused for a time to admire the view of the cathedral in its western aspect.

‘I decided to walk for a few more minutes and then go back to Framwellgate,’ she said to Tom. ‘I had almost forgotten about Mr Flask. As I drew nearer to the mill on the other side of the river I heard the thud of the hammers and smelled the stench of the – what is it they use? – yes, of the ammonia. There is a second mill on this side and a couple of workmen outside were unloading sacks of wool from a wagon. The path skirts the mill and I walked further so as get a clear view of that handsome bridge where the river curves round on itself.

‘This is quite a deserted stretch of the riverbank, I suppose because it is more distant from the town or because of the noise and smell of the mills. I don’t know why, Tom, but I grew suddenly alarmed when I rounded the loop of the river. The sun vanished behind a cloud and it turned gloomy. Even the river seemed to take on a blacker hue. I looked round and saw no one though I could hear the sounds of wood being chopped and sawed. I was about to retrace my steps when a figure burst from the slope of trees ahead of me and ran away. He did not see me. I cannot be sure but I think it might have been the man I noticed earlier, the one who tried to hand me a handkerchief.’

Helen paused at this point in her story. Tom looked up and saw a whiskery cheek and a single eye staring at them through the shuttered peephole in the cell door. The half-hour according to Perkins must be up. Tom mouthed the word ‘later’ and rubbed his thumb against his forefinger as Helen had done. The segment of face withdrew, apparently satisfied. Helen, absorbed in what she was saying, observed none of this.

‘I was foolish, Tom. I should have turned back there and then. I should have remembered that there is always, always, a penalty to be paid for curiosity. I suspected something was amiss and I ought to have summoned help. But I walked on until I came to the point where I had seen the man running from the shelter of the trees. I waited, listening to the wind in the branches and the rushing of the water and the distant sounds of saws and axes. The sun had come out again, which fortified me. Then I heard a different sound.

‘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.’

‘Helen, I haven’t said this yet but I recognized the knife, the one which was sent to Harcourt.’

Helen sat straight up in bed.

‘What!’

Tom had kept silent so far about the fact that the knife in the box and the Lucknow Dagger were one and the same. Now he rapidly explained that it was the very implement which Sebastian Marmont had shown to him in the County Hotel.

‘My God, Tom, why didn’t you tell the superintendent?’

‘Because I sense that this business is more complicated than we realize, Helen. How do we know what passed between Flask and the magician last night after the performance? He made the medium disappear but what happened next? I must speak to the Major before doing anything. He is a client of Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie, after all.’

‘Oh, so anything he says or does is privileged?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Tom, ‘but-’

‘You could not protect Major Marmont if he was the murderer.’

‘Of course not. I will go and see him tomorrow.’

‘You will not go alone. I have a stake in this now.’

‘Then both of us together will lay things out as fairly as we can to Marmont, mentioning the murder weapon and so on. If he cannot explain himself, then we will hand him over to Superintendent Harcourt. And, Helen, it’s not only me… you too have held back a piece of information.’

‘Me?’

‘I could see that you recognized the bit of material in the box with the knife. I recognized it too. It was the same as the handkerchief which that man tried to give you on the riverbank.’

‘The very same. It was a woman’s handkerchief although it was not mine. I suppose I was afraid that, if I drew attention to it in the Court office, then the Superintendent might have looked at me with even more suspicion.’

‘But you said nothing about the man either. You didn’t even mention you saw someone running from the woods.’

‘I know.’

Tom waited. Eventually Helen said, ‘There was something rather… frightening about that man. Can you remember what he looked like?’

Tom struggled to recall the encounter on the river path the other morning. The man had been tall, dressed in a shabby coat and hat. He had deep furrows on his face and a thin mouth. Helen had said he reminded her of someone. Would Tom recognize him if he saw him again? Probably. Was he the murderer of Eustace Flask? Possibly.

‘I can remember enough to give a description to the police if we need to.’

‘Can we leave it for a time, Tom? Just as you are going to leave informing on Major Marmont. There’s something else about the murder of Mr Flask, you see.’

‘What is it?’

‘It is rather shameful to confess.’

‘Even to me?’

‘I cannot be altogether sorry that Mr Flask is dead. I had rather he had never arrived in Durham. I had rather my aunt had never taken such a shine to him. But he did arrive and she did take a shine and we cannot alter that. Now he is dead and, however it occurred and whoever did the deed, I cannot be wholly sorry. There, is that not a terrible thing to say?’

‘You want me to show you how it works? Nothing could be easier.’

Major Sebastian Marmont did not have the look or manner of a murderer. He welcomed Tom and Helen like old friends. He expressed his regret at the death of Eustace Flask even if he did so in a somewhat perfunctory manner. He explained that Superintendent Harcourt had already visited him. According to the magician, the policeman asked only a few questions and was soon satisfied by his answers. Marmont did not seem to be aware of the details of how Flask had died, the fatal wound to the throat, and the use of the Lucknow Dagger as a murder weapon. Either that or he was a good actor; not implausible considering that he performed on the stage for a living.

The magician was candid about the sequence of events on the evening when Flask had been made to disappear. In fact he was willing to demonstrate the mechanism of the disappearance to the Ansells.

‘But I thought all your tricks were secret,’ said Helen.

‘We magicians do our best to keep them secret from each other but there are methods of finding out. Every fresh magic invention has to be patented, you see, otherwise any Tom, Dick or Harry could steal it. But the moment a patent is applied for, details must be provided and when those details are provided the secret is available to the same Tom, Dick amp; Co at the Patent Office. We magicians are caught in a bind. Which is my long-winded way of saying, Mrs Ansell, that I’ve no objection to showing you and your husband the secret of the Perseus Cabinet. Or may I call you Helen? I knew your father, you remember.’

‘Of course you may. But I shall continue to call you Major if you don’t mind. I like the sound of it.’

Major Marmont and the Ansells were standing on the stage of the Assembly Rooms. According to Marmont, they were lucky to find him there since he did most of his magical rehearsals at a variety hall he was renting elsewhere in the city. It was mid-morning. The auditorium was empty and, in the absence of an audience and the full panoply of flaring gaslights, the place looked smaller but more ornate because the fine plasterwork was evident. By contrast, the stage was plain and workaday. The Perseus Cabinet stood in the centre, its double doors shut. The Hindoo servants, otherwise Marmont’s three sons named after English kings and consorts, were busying themselves on the fringes of the stage.

‘Which of you is to disappear?’

‘I will,’ said Helen promptly.

‘No you won’t,’ said Tom.

‘Thomas, entering a cupboard holds no terrors for me. I trust the Major.’

‘Thank you, my dear.’

‘Then it’s settled.’

‘Have a look at it first of all, Mr Ansell. Walk round it. Reassure yourself.’

Tom did so. Apart from the doors at the front, there was no other way out, no flaps or little exits he could detect. He returned to stand by the magician who had been in deep conversation with his wife.

Now Sebastian Marmont clapped his hands and pointed to the cabinet. Arthur and Alfred ran to their positions on either side of it. Tom watched, more than slightly apprehensive, as the Major clasped Helen’s arm and walked her towards the cabinet. He whispered something else in her ear and Helen laughed. He left her standing a few feet in front of the doors. Marmont came back to where Tom was standing. Now he took Tom by the elbow.

‘If you’d just shift here, my dear chap, you’ll get a better view, you know.’

Tom couldn’t argue with that for he was now standing directly facing Helen who looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. Marmont nodded at the two boys who reached for the doors and swung them open with a simultaneous flourish. The interior of the Perseus Cabinet was just as it had been on the night of Flask’s disappearance. There was the empty space within, apart from the vertical wooden pole in the centre supporting a gas lamp which threw a clear illumination on to the red and gold paper of the internal walls.

Tom recalled that the magician had accompanied Eustace Flask into the cabinet but this time it was enough for Marmont to say, ‘Please step forward, my dear. Remember what I said.’

What was it the Major had said, Tom wondered, while he watched his wife step up and into the Perseus Cabinet. The ‘Hindoos’ promptly closed the doors after her and began to play on the flute and tambour.

Tom felt his mouth go dry. The Major continued to hold him by the upper arm. Was he doing that to show that he could not possibly be interfering with whatever was going on in the cabinet?

A few seconds went by. Without a word being said but as if at some unseen signal, the boy players put down their instruments and unfolded the doors once more. Tom saw the pole holding the gaslight, he saw the bright colours of the wallpaper. But of Helen there was no sign. He was standing about fifteen feet from the cabinet. He made to move forward, his unease turning to genuine anxiety. But the Major restrained him. He said, ‘Wait. All shall be well.’

The process was repeated. The doors closed, the monotonously hypnotic music was replayed, the instruments laid down again, the doors opened once more. And out stepped Helen Ansell.

Tom laughed in relief. Not that he thought anything had really happened to his wife. But she had definitely disappeared. And hadn’t they been toying with the possibility that the magician might also be a murderer?

‘How is it done?’ he said.

Marmont, all smiles and affability, tugged his moustaches.

‘I’ll let your wife explain. She is in on the secret now.’

Helen drew Tom right to one side so that they were almost in the wings. She told him to look at the cabinet from this angle. Did he notice anything odd about it? Yes, there was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, an irregularity in the patterning of the wallpaper inside the booth. They walked back towards it at a diagonal. Helen said Tom should keep his eyes on the interior. There was an unexpected flicker of movement, a glimpse of a sleeve. When Tom stopped and stepped back a pace, the sleeve reappeared. It was his own sleeve, his own arm.

Light started to dawn. He went right up to the cabinet and, with Helen’s encouragement, stepped inside. He saw now that there were two full-length, hinged panels on the interior which could be swung in and out from the back corners of the cabinet and which met at the central point provided by the pole. The panels were mirrored on one side and covered with the red and gilt paper on the other. When the the mirror-faces of the panels were flush against the side walls they were indistinguishable from them because the back ‘wallpaper’ side was revealed. When they were opened at a diagonal angle the mirrors reflected the actual side walls, covered in the same paper.

He realized that the pole was necessary for the illusion. Its function was not to support the gaslight, which could have been suspended from the ceiling, but to hide the meeting point of the mirrored panels. If you looked at the Perseus Cabinet directly from the front or from any angle except the most oblique ones in the wings, the mirrored panels when in place gave viewers the illusion that they were looking at the back wall, patterned in identical red and gold swirls.

Behind the reflecting panels was a fairly confined area in the shape of a wide-angled V. It was big enough though to take one person. It was where Helen had been instructed to hide herself while the doors were shut, a process that would take only a matter of seconds, just as it would take only a fraction of a minute to make a reappearance.

‘Like all the best tricks it is clever and simple at the same time. But now I am working on a new disappearing cabinet to beat all disappearing cabinets, something which will be superior even to the Perseus.’

This was Major Marmont who had come to stand next to Helen. Both were peering at Tom as he put his fingertips to the mirrors and admired the neat way in which each panel fitted snugly against the central pole.

‘Don’t touch the mirrors,’ said Marmont. ‘They have to be absolutely clean. Any smudges or smears will catch the light and the audience might notice.’

Tom stepped down from the Perseus Cabinet. Both Helen and Major Marmont were smiling, not exactly at Tom but at the cleverness of the deception.

‘You would make an accomplished performer on stage, my dear,’ said the magician to Helen. ‘Perhaps you would be willing to help me prepare my tricks another time?’

‘I would be delighted,’ said Helen.

‘How did you persuade Eustace Flask to hide himself behind the mirrors?’ cut in Tom. ‘Why should he want to help you of all people, Major Marmont?’

‘He did not want to help me, not at all. But once I had him up on stage he couldn’t back out without looking like a spoilsport or a milksop, though in my view he was both.’

‘He said something to you,’ said Helen. ‘Everybody in the audience saw him whispering to you.’

‘Oh,’ said the Major airily, ‘it was nothing, a threat, a warning which I dismissed. I couldn’t tell him how the trick worked of course, otherwise he would probably have revealed it to the audience there and then. You’ll remember that I accompanied him inside the Perseus Cabinet, something I did not have to do with you, dear lady, because you already knew what to do. When the outer doors were closed upon Flask and me, it was the work of an instant to give him a hearty shove into the area at the back and fasten the panels to the pole. If you look carefully you’ll see that there are little catches at top and bottom to secure the panels. It wouldn’t take much to break them down but usually, of course, we are dealing with those who are willing to disappear, those who are in on the secret. I counted on Flask being sufficiently confused not to kick up a fuss – or to try and kick his way out. The boys were playing their drum and flute, and the purpose of the music is not merely to set the scene but to conceal any untoward noises which may be emerging from the Perseus Cabinet. There, I think you have it all now.’

‘Not really, Major,’ said Tom. ‘I understand the trick but what happened to Flask afterwards?’

‘Nothing whatsoever. We came forward to take a bow, I and my Hindoo lads, and the sound of applause must have been gall to Flask’s ears even while it was masking any fuss he was making. Then we wheeled the Perseus off stage in double-quick time and I personally released Flask from his captivity. He was looking mighty peeved, I can tell you, but slightly shamefaced as well. I’d certainly paid him back for his earlier deception at Miss Howlett’s and he knew it. But what was he going to do? Announce how a magician had tricked him into disappearing? Lay a complaint that I had manhandled him and show himself up for a milksop in the process. He followed me back to the dressing room and judging by his expression he would have liked to make a scene. He might even have thought of raising his fist at me. But he saw the folly of it and he scarcely opened his mouth. In fact, he couldn’t get out of the theatre fast enough.’

Tom had more to ask. The three of them were alone, Marmont’s boys having made themselves scarce. Even so he was conscious that they were standing on a stage in a public place. He gazed out at the auditorium and thought he detected a movement near the seats at the back. He called out, ‘Is anybody there?’ but there was no answer.

Nevertheless he lowered his voice as he said to Marmont, ‘Did your hear how Flask was killed?’

‘Superintendent Harcourt said he was stabbed. I read an account in the paper this morning. I was sorry to read it, believe it or not.’

The Durham Advertiser had carried a vague and sensationalized story, referring to a murderous frenzy and speculating that there might be a madman on the loose in the city. It seemed to Tom unduly alarmist and, oddly, the source of the story appeared to be the police themselves. Despite this, it did not give any reliable detail about the murder. Fortunately, Helen’s brief incarceration had not been mentioned, nor the delivery of the mysterious package to the police-house.

‘Major Marmont, you showed me the Lucknow Dagger a day or so ago. You have given me some notes on how you acquired it and you are going to swear an affidavit.’

‘That won’t be necessary now,’ said the Major to Tom. For the first time that morning his friendly tone was replaced by something more guarded, even hostile.

‘It won’t. Why not?’

‘I am sorry you have had a wasted journey to Durham, Mr Ansell. I no longer wish to swear an affidavit. Of course, I will expect to be billed by Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie for your time and trouble so far but… no more is required of you.’

‘I am afraid that we cannot leave it there,’ said Tom, glancing at Helen.

‘I would like to see the Lucknow Dagger again.’

‘You saw it yesterday.’

‘Even so,’ said Helen, speaking more gently than Tom and not giving the slightest hint that she had already seen the Dagger in the court house office, ‘ I would appreciate a glimpse of it. Tom has described it to me. It is such a fine piece of work, he says.’

‘It is certainly that.’

‘We must see it,’ repeated Tom.

There was a pause. A lot hinged on Sebastian Marmont’s reply. He could not still be in possession of the Dagger which was currently locked up in a police safe. But what he said next would determine how much he knew of the weapon which was responsible for a murder, possibly even whether he had committed it himself.

The Major sighed. He seemed to come to a decision.

‘I cannot show the Lucknow Dagger to you, dear lady and gentleman, for the simple reason that I no longer have it. It was stolen from me on the evening of the performance. As I said, Eustace Flask came storming after me into the dressing room. I turned my back on him for a moment – I wasn’t afraid of him and his tantrums! – and when I looked round again his expression had changed. He had obviously thought better of starting a set-to. He stalked out. It was only later that I realized that the Dagger had gone. I had taken it off and laid it down as I was changing. He must have removed it as a form of revenge. Like the sneaking opportunistic thief he was.’

‘Why didn’t you go after him?’

‘I decided to leave it until the next day. I knew where he lived, Flask and the man and woman who share a house with him.’

‘Yes, you must have known,’ said Tom, ‘because you wrote a letter to him inviting him to take part in the performance. How did you know that, Major Marmont?’

‘You are very suspicious, Mr Ansell. You ought to be a detective.’

‘I – both Helen and I – have cause for suspicion, sir. Believe me, the police might have cause for suspicion too.’

‘I sense there is something you’re not telling me. Very well, yes, I did know Flask’s address in the city. I told one of my lads to follow him and his little entourage after that business at Miss Howlett’s. It was easy to do. Flask and the woman were sauntering through the old town with that bruiser of a fellow pushing a handcart containing all Flask’s tawdry props behind them. They finished up at a house in Old Elvet. My lad noted the street and the number, then came back and gave me the information after which I wrote to the medium requesting his presence at the Assembly Rooms. He duly came as a member of the audience and the rest followed.’

‘Did you go to get the Dagger back?’

‘I went the next morning, only to be told by the woman – Kitty’s her name, I think – that Flask had returned to the house very late the previous night, in fact in the early hours of the morning. But by that stage he’d vanished once more, she said, gone to meet someone. She did not say who he was meeting.’

‘You asked her about the Dagger?’

‘I did not mention it. The matter of the Dagger was between Flask and me. If I encountered him again I was going to call him a thief to his face and demand its return.’

‘ If you encountered him. You don’t sound very concerned about the loss of the Dagger.’

‘The Dagger has a strange and violent history which I have only hinted at in the notes I have given you. If I’m honest I had mixed feelings about its loss. I suspected that it would bring no good to Eustace Flask.’

‘It did not,’ said Helen. ‘The Dagger was the implement which was used to kill him.’

‘Was it now?’ said the Major with surprising equanimity, though his face grew more ruddy. ‘Well, that is an example of poetic justice, since Flask took the Dagger from me.’

‘You did not tell any of this to Superintendent Harcourt?’ said Tom.

‘As I say, the taking of the Dagger was a matter between me and Flask so, no, I did not mention it. Besides, Superintendent Harcourt did not seem very interested by what I said. He was easily satisfied. I gathered from something he let slip that he was familiar with this man Flask and didn’t much like him either. Without giving a demonstration, I merely informed Harcourt of how I first caused Flask to disappear from the Perseus Cabinet and then let him out again five minutes or so later. So where is the Lucknow Dagger now, Mr Ansell? I ask, because you seem to be so well informed.’

‘It’s in the hands of the police,’ said Tom.

Helen told of the strange parcel which had been forwarded to the Crown Court and the yet stranger note which had exonerated her of blame for the murder. She could even recite it word for word – ‘THE LADY DID’NT DO THE DEED’ and so on – as though it were imprinted on her brain. It was imprinted on Tom’s too. Now Marmont looked truly shocked.

‘You don’t mean that you have come under suspicion yourself, Helen? That is terrible, terrible. Thank God for the anonymous letter-writer.’

‘Whoever he was,’ she said.

‘Major, you will have to go to the police and give a statement about how Flask took the knife and so on. Now that you know it was the murder weapon.’

‘Is that the advice of a lawyer, Mr Ansell?’

‘It is.’

‘Very well. But before that I should like you – both of you – to hear the full story of the Dagger’s provenance. The notes I have given you, Mr Ansell, only hint at it. A day or so’s delay in informing the Durham Constabulary cannot make much difference.’

Tom agreed since he had little choice. Dilip Gopal, Marmont’s assistant, appeared at this point. The Major introduced him to Helen and he bowed slightly.

‘Mr and Mrs Ansell are curious about the disappearance of Eustace Flask. I have told them that no harm came to him here.’

‘That is the case,’ said the Indian. ‘I saw him go. But not before he had roundly insulted me as he left the theatre. It is fortunate that I am a forgiving fellow.’

He uttered the remark in a light spirit but his mouth was grim.

‘Oh I don’t think anyone would suspect you, my dear fellow,’ said Marmont. ‘But I have some bad news, Dilip. The implement which was used to murder Flask was the Lucknow Dagger. It is at present in the hands of the police.’

‘I hope that they will return it, Major,’ said Dilip Gopal.

‘No doubt, but they must retain it as evidence for a time.’

An odd look passed between Marmont and Dilip Gopal. Tom could not interpret it. A warning? A sign of collusion? He felt more than ever out of his depth.

The Police-House

Miss Kitty Partout was visiting Superintendent Frank Harcourt at the station-house. She said that she had come to clear her name because of whisperings and rumours over the murder of Eustace Flask. He was the one to speak to, wasn’t he?

‘That’s right, Miss Partout,’ said Harcourt. ‘I am in charge of the investigation.’

Harcourt was the natural choice to take charge of the inquiry into Flask’s murder. He had practically volunteered himself. Hadn’t he been ordered by Chief Constable Huggins to deal with Flask when the medium was alive? Therefore he was the one to handle him when dead.

Normally Frank Harcourt would have enjoyed sitting in his cramped little office in the company of an attractive woman like Kitty. She was slight and dark-haired with a plump figure and quite a forward manner. But he was uneasily aware that Kitty was probably familiar with his own links to Eustace. Although his own early dealings with Flask – when he attempted to make contact with Florry – had been while the medium was operating alone in Durham, Harcourt knew of Kitty and Barker. Therefore she might know of him. Had the medium boasted of having one of the town officers under his thumb?

He wondered if he could discover how much she knew. Before he could utter a word, however, she began to tumble out her own story. He shushed her and said they would do things in the proper, orderly style. He started with a benign query.

‘I am sorry to see you have hurt your hand, Miss Partout. I hope it is not your good hand.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Kitty, tucking the bandaged hand in her lap without answering the question directly. ‘I cut it on some glass is all. But thank you for asking. My name is pronounced “Partoo”, by the way.’

Harcourt fussed over his pad and pencil as he usually did so that he could make a covert assessment of those he was interviewing. Eventually he was ready.

‘Some preliminaries first, Miss Partout,’ he said, taking care to pronounce her name as instructed. ‘What was the nature of your connection with Mr Flask? I heard tell he was your uncle.’

Kitty might have been about to agree to that but she picked up on the sceptical, even slightly sneering tone in the Superintendent’s voice so she said, ‘He was not my uncle, no. I don’t know how that story got about. But we was as respectable as brother and sister. I helped him in his seances.’

‘And the other gentleman, the other helper. Ambrose Barker. Is he like a brother to you?’

‘Sometimes,’ said Kitty shifting on her seat, ‘’cept he’s no gentleman.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Dunno. We had a quarrel and he walked out a couple of days ago.’

‘What was the quarrel about?’

Kitty thought for a time. ‘Nothing much. A bit of property, you might say.’

‘You haven’t seen him since?’

‘No.’

‘You said just now that Mr Flask returned to the house which you shared on the evening after the performance in the Assembly Rooms.’

‘He came back very late. I was worried after that magician disappeared him. But Eustace, Mr Flask, came back late, yes, he came back in the small hours. He was angry coz he thought he’d been made a fool of. You ought to talk to that magician.’

‘I have talked to Major Marmont,’ said Harcourt, beginning to feel more confident. Perhaps this woman knew nothing at all of his own dealings with the dead man. ‘What you are saying confirms what he says, that Mr Flask left the theatre after the show.’

‘He didn’t come straight back, he must have been wandering round the town.’

‘Possibly. But Eustace Flask did come back, that’s the main point. And the next morning, the morning of his, er, death… what happened then?’

‘He left the house again.’

‘When did he leave?’

‘’Bout nine o’clock it must have been. Said he had a meeting with someone.’

‘Did he say who he was meeting?’

‘No.’

‘Or where?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see which direction he took?’

‘No.’

Harcourt’s hand was gripping the pencil tightly. His confidence had gone again when Kitty referred to Flask’s meeting ‘someone’. He realized he hadn’t yet made a single note of any of Kitty’s answers. He didn’t need to, of course, because he had himself seen Flask on the morning of the medium’s death and she was telling him nothing he was not already aware of. But, for the sake of form, he automatically scribbled down some words on his pad. The little display wasn’t necessary because Kitty suddenly sunk her head in her hands, one gloved, one bandaged. She said, between gulps, ‘I didn’t see him again and now I won’t coz he’s gone.’

‘There, there,’ said Harcourt. ‘We will catch the person who did this.’

‘Will you?’ said Kitty. She seemed to recover all at once. She gave him a curious look from beneath her lowered lashes, half flirtatious, half tearful. ‘Will you now? You really ought to talk to that magician again. He came round to the house too.’

‘Marmont did? I didn’t know that. When did he appear?’

‘That Major Marmont, he turned up on the doorstep shortly after Eustace, Mr Flask, had left. He asked where he’d gone as well. Like I just said, I didn’t know.’

‘So what did he do?’

‘Took off himself.’

‘In pursuit of Mr Flask?’

‘Dunno.’

Harcourt gave up the pretence of writing. He leaned back in his chair. It was baffling. Why had Marmont gone to visit Flask? Wasn’t he satisfied with having humiliated the medium on the previous evening? Had he come to inflict more pain? Or to apologize?

‘What was his manner, Major Marmont’s manner? How was he behaving?’

‘He wasn’t best pleased about something, I can tell you.’

‘This is significant information, Miss Partout,’ said the Superintendent. ‘I will certainly be talking to the Major again.’

There was little more to say after that. Harcourt indicated to Miss Partout that she could leave. Although he was still curious enough to ask her what she planned to do now that her employer – or protector – or brother – but not uncle – was gone.

Kitty stood up. She shrugged her pretty shoulders.

‘Dunno,’ she said for at least the third time, ‘’spect I’ll make my way. I usually do.’

When she had gone, Harcourt sat in thought. Did the unexpected appearance of Major Sebastian Marmont at the house on the morning of the murder help to clarify or muddy the waters? It muddied them, he concluded. Which was a state of affairs that suited him. Also, he might now add the name of Ambrose Barker to those who could plausibly be suspected of wanting to see Flask dead. The more potential murderers, the merrier. Harcourt would have bet a week’s salary that the quarrel that Kitty mentioned had involved a dispute between Ambrose and Flask. Perhaps the injury to her hand was related to it as well.

Even Kitty herself might be viewed in a suspicious light, as one of the last people to see Flask alive and someone whose relations with him were murky rather than uncle-like or brother-and-sisterly. The Superintendent, in his detective role, had tried to establish whether Kitty was right-handed (it was the right which was bandaged) by asking whether it was her good one but she hadn’t responded to his hint. If she happened to be a southpaw, she might have wielded the knife against Flask herself. At least that’s what a detective might think!

Harcourt was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Constable Humphries. He was carrying a telegram form. He most probably knew its contents since there was a telegraph wire direct to the police-house where messages were transcribed by a clerk. Nevertheless the excitement of its arrival caused Humphries to hover by Harcourt’s desk. The Superintendent waved him away and the constable went to the window and blocked the light while pretending to examine the view.

Harcourt unfolded the telegram and read: Arriving Durham by 2.30 from London. Please arrange for someone to meet at railway station and escort to police-horse. Urgent and confidential business. Inspector William Traynor, Great Scotland Yard.

Harcourt was baffled, even after he had substituted ‘police-house’ for ‘police-horse’. But, more than being baffled, he was deeply worried. Why should a London police inspector be travelling – urgently, confidentially travelling – to Durham? He thought of the murder of Eustace Flask. But that had occurred yesterday and, even in the Durham paper, news of it was being circulated only this morning. Too soon, surely, for Scotland Yard to be alerted to take action? What was it to do with them anyway? This was Durham business.

Harcourt took out his watch. It was dinner time. An hour or so until Traynor was due in. Humphries cleared his throat. Harcourt looked up, he’d almost forgotten the constable’s presence. He needed some time alone, time for reflection. He ordered Humphries to go to the railway station and collect Inspector William Traynor of Great Scotland Yard. He laid emphasis on the last words and was gratified to see the expression of alarm, almost panic, on Humphries’ stolid face.

The constable bustled for the door and fumbled with the handle.

‘Beg pardon, sir.’

‘Yes.’

‘How’m I go’in to reckernise him?’

Harcourt thought. Would Traynor be wearing a uniform? He didn’t know how they did things in London. It was all a mystery. He said, ‘He’ll be wearing a – an air of authority. Anyway, you will be wearing a uniform and he will recognize you.’

When Constable Humphries had left, Harcourt tried to gather up his thoughts. But, since he had no idea why Traynor was visiting Durham, he did not get very far. He would find out soon enough. He remembered the recent interview with Kitty Partout and the one piece of fresh information which she had given him.

There was another knock at the door. For an instant he thought it was Humphries returning with Inspector Traynor before realizing that the constable would not even have reached the railway station yet.

‘Yes.’

The door opened timorously. A man in a shovel-hat which barely suppressed an unruly thatch of white hair poked his head round.

‘Superintendent Harcourt?’

‘What is it?’

‘I was directed to your office by the sergeant. May I come in?’

‘Who are you, sir?’

‘My name is Septimus Sheridan.’

Septimus Sheridan? Harcourt struggled to place the name. The face was vaguely familiar. Couldn’t he be left in peace?

‘Why do you want to see me, Mr Sheridan?’

‘It is to do with the… the murder of Eustace Flask.’

At once Harcourt was alert.

‘You have some information about Mr Flask?’

‘I do, yes I do.’

‘You had better come in and sit down, sir. Make yourself comfortable. If you’ll just wait while I get my pad and pencil. Oh dear, I see it needs sharpening.’

Harcourt fiddled with his clasp-knife and honed the pencil to a dagger-sharp tip. All the time he was studying the gent on the other side of his desk. He looked like a reverend, except that he was not wearing a collar. What connection could he possibly have to Flask? Eventually he was ready.

‘Tell me, Mr Sheridan,’ said Frank Harcourt. ‘Tell me everything.’