The Durham deception

The Return

Kitty went straight from the police station back to the house in Old Elvet. She had said to Harcourt that she would ‘make her way’ but in truth she had no idea what to do next. She thought the rent on the house was paid for another week or so and she had a few pounds in hand but, for the first time in months, she was without a male protector. Eustace was dead – she went cold as she recalled the fact of his murder – and Ambrose Barker was gone. At least she hoped he was. She had known Ambrose for nearly two years and this was not how she had felt about him at first.

She had fallen head-over-heels for Barker when she had glimpsed him, battered and bleeding, as he was being helped from the sparring ring in the Black Lion near Drury Lane. There was something game about the man even though he couldn’t walk straight and blood was pouring from his cheek. Then she had been literally swept away when he seized her hand outside the pub and the next few days and nights passed in a physical oblivion.

The couple had thought they might make a go of it like respectable folk. They found jobs that didn’t pay much but were sufficient to provide food and shelter that was superior to the Hackney nethersken where they first lodged. But Ambrose still had his connections to the boxing underworld and he felt the lure of that kind of life. Somebody had called in a debt – Kitty didn’t know the details – and Ambrose was invited to use his fists and brawn in a robbery. Kitty refused to play her part and, at that stage, she had enough sway over Ambrose to make him think twice. They had to quit London though.

When they arrived by chance in Durham they were at their wits’ end. All Kitty’s scruples were vanishing fast and the attempt to rob Eustace Flask was a desperate throw. After they were taken up by the medium and trained in some of his arts, Kitty felt as happy as she had ever been. She knew from the off that Flask was a conman but he did it with such style! By comparison, Ambrose was not much more than a bruiser. She wasn’t exactly drawn to Flask, not in that way, but he was more entertaining company than Ambrose and he had been responsible for giving Kitty a whole new view of the world and herself.

They had not planned to fall into bed together but Kitty had been teasing him for days and letting him feel her tits in a companionable way until late one evening, when Ambrose was out drinking, it just happened. Kitty had not been much impressed by Flask’s efforts – in fact she wondered whether he was a virgin in the female department – but she had played along. It was unfortunate Ambrose picked that moment to make his drunken return and burst in on them. Kitty almost laughed when she remembered his remark about a ‘case of insects’. But the consequences had not been funny, not at all. The bedroom still smelled of singed feathers and burnt linen from the spilled oil-lamp. Her hand was still bandaged from the glass cuts.

From that instant everything had gone wrong. They had attended the performance at the Assembly Rooms and Eustace had been persuaded to go up on stage. Kitty had been genuinely worried because she recognized the magician as the man who caused such a stir at Miss Howlett’s house. After Eustace failed to emerge from the Perseus Cabinet she thought that Marmont had somehow done away with him. That was why she had pushed her way backstage, only to be told that it was all a trick. Even so…

When Flask returned to the house late that night, he was in a queer mood, half angry, half gleeful. She was almost asleep. He mentioned that he had got hold of something of Marmont’s, some item the magician would regret losing. He did not tell Kitty what it was and she had not passed on this particular bit of information to the police. Perhaps the item was what Major Marmont was looking for when he arrived at the house on the morning of Eustace’s death.

Otherwise she had told Harcourt everything she knew, which was not much. Eustace had left saying he was going to meet someone. Then, minutes later, Major Marmont had tipped up. If she was the police, she would have questioned the magician very closely. But that Superintendent had not seemed to be very concerned. He had asked her nothing much about Ambrose. In her book, they should be looking for Ambrose as well. Was he a murderer? Kitty didn’t believe it although he’d certainly looked capable of the deed when he burst into the bedroom. Was he still in Durham? Kitty thought she’d caught a glimpse of him over her shoulder once or twice. Was he still consumed with anger? Enough to commit murder? Had he followed Eustace yesterday morning, got him on his own and done for him? If so, would he come after her next? Strange to say, these ideas had not occurred to Kitty before. She knew that Ambrose was not so hard underneath, for all his fighting airs.

Now, alone in the rented house in the early afternoon, she grew frightened. She went round drawing the thin curtains and bolting the front and back doors. Ambrose had a key but he could not get past a bolt. She was standing in the kitchen when out of the corner of her eye she suddenly noticed a shadowy movement in the tiny backyard. Heart in mouth, she crouched down below the sink. There was a tap at the back door.

‘Kitty, are you there? I know someone’s there. Kitty, open up.’

It was Ambrose.

Later, when they’d made everything up, Kitty ventured to ask a question. The only question that mattered. She and Ambrose were lying in their bed, the one in the back room with its view of the gaol. Not so spacious or comfortable as the mahogany one in the better bedroom but that was associated with Flask and, besides, there was still the stench of burnt feathers in the room. It was late afternoon. Kitty stretched. She felt warm and relaxed – and hungry. She’d hardly eaten that day, what with her visit to the police station (which she was tactful enough not to mention). In a moment she’d go down to the kitchen and see if there was anything to cook.

It was strange, she reflected, that a few hours before she had been hoping never to see Ambrose again. It was good riddance as far as she was concerned. Yet here they were, snugged up tight together, like nothing had happened. Except something had happened. Eustace Flask was dead. Hence the question.

‘Ambrose, did you do it?’

‘Do what?’

‘You know. Did you do Eustace?’

‘What do you think, Kitty?’

‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.’

‘You think I’m a murderer,’ said Ambrose, gripping her throat not hard but not so playfully either.

‘Leave off, Ambrose. ’Course I don’t. Otherwise I’d hardly be lying here with you, would I? I’m not stupid.’

‘I don’t know ’bout that. It takes someone pretty stupid to think they could get away with lying with a molly like Flask.’

‘Oh that. That was just a – ’ Kitty searched for a word that would not offend him ‘ – a ’speriment. I was curious.’

‘You know what they say about curiosity and the cat. The cat, remember, Kitty Kitty.’

Ambrose was sufficiently amused by his own joke to move his hand from the area of Kitty’s throat and to start stroking the inside of her thigh instead. She was encouraged. She ran her own hand – her left one, not the bandaged one – down his body and said, ‘If I’m a cat, Ambrose, look at what I’ve found here. Why, it’s a mouse, a very large mouse. Don’t you worry your head about Eustace. He couldn’t even get it up.’

‘Not true from what I saw.’

‘Not properly up anyway, not for more than a mo. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud. Not like you, Ambrose. You can always get it up. But, serious, where’ve you been the last few days? Have you been sleeping rough?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘I missed you.’

Ambrose pulled away from her hand. He looked slightly uneasy. Not really guilty but a bit uncomfortable.

‘Where’ve I been? Here and there. But not sleeping rough, no.’

In fact, Ambrose had prudently invested in a widow, not too old a widow, who lived in a neighbouring street. His investment had taken the form of a few knowing words and suggestive grins over the last couple of months and she was more than receptive when he went knocking on her door round the corner. It was the night when he’d stormed out the house after discovering Kitty in bed with Flask. Being round the corner had been convenient too since he was determined to keep a close eye on Flask and Kitty. On the subject of the widow, he might have said to Kitty that a wise mouse needed more than one hole to creep into but the thought did not occur to him. He was split between wanting to boast about the other woman to Kitty – except that the widow would lose a few years in the telling – and wanting to keep quiet. Truth was, he was a little bit nervous of Kitty’s reaction. So he said nothing except to repeat that he had not been sleeping rough.

Kitty had a fair idea that something of the widow-variety might have occurred. It didn’t bother her. They were quits in a way. But Ambrose still hadn’t answered the question about the murder of Flask, not right out. She had to know. So she approached the problem less directly.

‘What were you up to while I was missing you? You with someone?’

‘You sound like a police jack with all this quizzing. No, I wasn’t. If you want to know, I was keeping an eye on you and Eustace. I went to that theatre like you did. I saw Flask vanish. That was a good trick. Take my hat off to the magician.’

‘He came back afterwards,’ said Kitty.

‘I know he came back, more’s the pity,’ said Ambrose. He hesitated for a moment before continuing. ‘I had a glimpse of him, didn’t I? He was a long way off. I recognized his coat.’

Kitty stiffened. Was Ambrose saying that he had been following Flask on the morning of his death? Was this his way of edging towards a confession? As though he could read her mind he said, ‘But I didn’t get no closer to Flask. I kept my distance. Next I knew there was some big kerfuffle, the crushers coming and blowing their whistles and shaking their rattles and all that. I made meself scarce.’

She wasn’t sure whether to believe him. Not the bit about making himself scarce but whether he really hadn’t got close to Flask, close enough to kill him.

‘Tell you who I did see, though,’ said Ambrose suddenly. ‘That old fellow who was at Miss Howlett’s. He passed me in a right state. If he weren’t so old I’d say he’d been running.’

Teatime Confession

Septimus was not usually at Colt House at teatime since he tried to put in a full working day in the cathedral library. But he had not been back to the library for two days now. Like the rest of the household, he had been unsettled by the murder of Eustace Flask and so these two old friends, Septimus and Julia, naturally turned to each other for comfort. Septimus had something else on his mind which he had yet to reveal to his landlady. First, though, he had to establish how Miss Howlett was bearing up. He commiserated with her on the death of the medium.

‘Oh, it is terrible, Septimus, terrible. But I have hardly given the unfortunate Eustace a thought because I have been so worried about Helen. What happened to my niece is a disgrace, it is an outrage.’

‘I expect the police thought they were acting for the best. Perhaps they had no choice in the matter because Mrs Ansell was found near the… because she was…’

‘How dare they arrest my niece! How dare they suspect her of having a hand in Mr Flask’s demise! Helen would not hurt a fly. She is not robust, you know.’

‘I never like to disagree with you, Miss Howlett, but from what little I have seen of Mrs Ansell she strikes me as being quite the opposite. She is robust, she is capable. She even hinted to me that her experience might be useful to her in her writing. For she is writing a novel, one of those novels they call a three-decker.’

‘I know, I know,’ said Julia, ‘but there are some experiences which a lady ought never to have, whatever the length of the novel she is writing.’

‘I was there,’ said Septimus, putting his teacup down in the saucer with particular care.

‘Where? Where were you, Septimus?’

‘I was near the river when Eustace Flask was… was murdered. I saw him.’

‘You saw him what, Septimus? You saw him alive, you saw him dead?’

At once Julia Howlett looked very alert, especially bird-like.

‘Both.’

‘I am afraid I do not quite follow you.’

‘I was visiting St Oswald’s. I do sometimes, when I want peace and quiet to think. I was walking in the graveyard and looking at the view of the cathedral over the river and through the trees. All at once, I heard a noise below me, from among the trees. And I saw someone making his way in haste through the branches and the undergrowth…’

‘Really, Septimus, you are not writing a three-decker novel. Less circumstantial detail, if you please. Who did you see?’

‘It was Flask. I recognized him by his coat, the bright green coat, like a peacock’s I have always thought. I was curious to see what he was up to. There is a path from the St Oswald’s graveyard leading to the river. I began to go down it. I am not sure what happened next but I rather think I stumbled over a tree root. Anyway I lost my footing and I fell over, and was badly winded and confused. I must have lain on the ground for some time. When I came to myself again, I was aware of strange noises from a spot further down. I went to investigate and I saw… oh, Miss Howlett, I saw a body lying there which I think was that of Mr Flask… I think he might have still been alive.’

‘ Think, Septimus. Aren’t you sure?’

‘It must have been him.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing, I did nothing. I am ashamed to say that I was frozen with fear. And then I heard the sounds of someone coming from the other direction, from the river, and I responded by moving as fast as I could upwards, back to the graveyard of St Oswald’s. I suppose I was fearful that I too would be attacked. It was not my most glorious hour.’

‘It was not,’ Julia agreed.

‘My life has not been very full of glorious hours, Miss Howlett.’

In his distraction Septimus ruffled his hair so that it was more straggly than ever. He looked so woebegone that Julia reached across and patted his knee.

‘But I suspect many men, younger and fitter men, would have done just the same.’

‘Your niece did not, she was brave, she went to investigate. It may have been her who I heard coming.’

Septimus did not mention that he had also heard distant screams as he was stumbling through the graveyard, the screams of a woman. That would have been an admission too far. Miss Howlett would think even worse of him if he revealed that he had not gone back to assist.

‘Perhaps you are right in saying Helen is a robust girl,’ said Julia. ‘A little foolhardy too. But, Septimus, there is one thing which you can do – one thing which you must do – to make amends. You must tell the police everything which you have told me.’

‘I already have. I visited the police-house earlier today. I spoke to Superintendent Harcourt.’

‘Good, good. Your account is useful because it helps to exonerate Helen even more. Since you saw poor Mr Flask when he was already dead or dying and then heard a person approaching, a person who was most likely my niece, it confirms she cannot possibly be considered responsible for this heinous crime.’

‘That is what Harcourt said although he didn’t put it quite like that. The trouble is-’

‘What is the trouble now, Septimus?’

‘The Superintendent seemed to think I might have done the deed.’

‘You! That is as ridiculous as imagining that Helen did it. Almost as ridiculous.’

‘He established that I lodged with you, Miss Howlett. He was already aware of your, ah, friendship with Mr Flask. He asked whether I like the medium, whether I approved of him.’

‘Which you did not.’

‘Was it so obvious?’

‘You never said much but I could see from your expressions, even from your silences, that you were a sceptic.’

‘A sceptic not so much on my own account but on yours, Miss Howlett. I did not like to see Eustace Flask practising on you.’

‘I can look after myself,’ said Julia firmly. ‘But if you related all this to the policeman, I can see that you might have made him suspicious. But not so suspicious that he locked you up, like poor Helen.’

‘Perhaps I should have been locked up. It would be a fitting punishment, Miss Howlett, for my many failures. But I did not lay a hand on Mr Flask. And I do not believe that Superintendent Harcourt really thought I might have done. Instead he said something rather odd.’

‘Well?’

‘He said, “The more the merrier”.’

The Visitor from the Yard

Earlier that afternoon, a mystery had been solved. Detectives from Great Scotland Yard did not wear uniforms. The individual sitting in Superintendent Frank Harcourt’s room was wearing an ordinary suit, and if Harcourt had passed him in the street he would not have given him a second glance. He’d scarcely have looked more than twice if they were sharing a railway compartment. Inspector William Traynor, with his round face and bland gaze, was average in every respect. Harcourt began to relax slightly.

‘Welcome to Durham, Inspector. I do not think we have been privileged to receive a visit from Scotland Yard before. You have had something to eat, I hope.’

‘I bought a meat pie when I changed at Derby. But I would appreciate it if you could recommend a place where I might stay in the city for a day or two.’

The Inspector had come straight from the station. He travelled light, his only luggage a small portmanteau by his chair. Harcourt was about to suggest a couple of places when a better idea occurred to him.

‘We have some good hotels and lodging houses in Durham but it would be a pleasure if you would stay with us, Inspector. My wife would be delighted to meet a detective from Scotland Yard.’

Traynor nodded and was, in his quiet way, effusive in his thanks.

‘Although I am a bachelor, Superintendent, there is nothing that pleases me more than the sight of domestic felicity. Your invitation is appreciated.’

Harcourt was thinking such a guest would impress Rhoda. It will do my career no harm either when the Chief Constable gets to hear of it. And it would be better to have this stranger from the Yard in a place where I can keep an eye on him. But, on the heels of these thoughts, it occurred to him that he had yet to discover exactly what Traynor was doing in Durham. What was the urgent and confidential business that had brought him all the way from London?

Harcourt decided to grasp the nettle. ‘You’re here about the Flask business, I expect.’

‘The Flask business?’

‘A well-known local…’ Harcourt hesitated. How to describe Eustace Flask, since he was reluctant for some reason to say ‘medium’? He settled lamely for ‘… a local character.’

Inspector Traynor looked even blanker and Harcourt relaxed even more.

‘Mr Flask had the misfortune to be murdered yesterday. The crime was perpetrated near the river.’

‘I know nothing about that.’

‘Well, that’s a – that’s not surprising. I mean, it would be surprising if the news had already reached the London papers.’

‘I dare say the news will eventually,’ said Traynor. ‘An interesting case? You have apprehended someone?’

‘Only a matter of time,’ said Harcourt. ‘So, if it isn’t to do with this murder, why are you here, Inspector?’

‘Just as I am unaware of your man Flask, Superintendent Harcourt, I don’t suppose you have heard of a recent accident in London. It occurred in the suburb of Norwood. A married couple died because one of them had carelessly left the gas jets open. It was fortunate there was no explosion. A neighbour caught a whiff of gas, and smashed a window. She alerted the constable on the beat and together they ensured that no one caused a spark in the vicinity, until the supply could be turned off at the mains and the house thoroughly ventilated. But it was far too late. The man and his wife were found upstairs, asphyxiated in their bed.’

Now it was Harcourt’s turn to put on a blank face. Had the Inspector travelled all the way from Great Scotland Yard to give him a first-hand account of an accident in a London suburb? He wondered how to respond.

‘A sad story. I hadn’t heard it. To be frank, Inspector, an accident such as this – a London accident – is unlikely to feature in The Durham Advertiser.’

Harcourt spoke not knowing of the article which Helen Ansell had mentioned to Tom.

‘I suppose not,’ said Traynor. ‘The name of the couple was Seldon. He was a policeman. And you are also a policeman, Superintendent, like me. Anything about the story strike you as odd?’

Now Frank Harcourt put on his thinking face. A dead policeman. That explained the Inspector’s interest. Mentally, he ran over what he’d just heard about the gas mains in the Norwood house but without result. Was this a Scotland Yard test? Why didn’t the fellow on the other side of his desk get to the point? Harcourt shrugged and Traynor said, ‘You see, you might be careless enough to go to bed leaving the gas lamps on but only after you had cut off the supply at the mains. Alternatively you might leave the mains supply on but only if you ensured that all the jets in the house were turned off.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Harcourt, glimpsing what Traynor might be on about.

‘This was a murder, a double murder. Someone had broken into the house via a back window to a privy. We know that because one of the window bars was prised away. The same someone went round turning on the gas taps and, after that, the supply from the mains. He was careless. He left his coat on the floor of the privy.’

‘And you’ve traced the owner of the coat, Inspector?’

‘No such luck. The burglar – the murderer, I should say – did not leave his name with the coat. It was an old, battered item, impossible to trace back to a shop or manufacturer, let alone an owner. Just the kind of thing you might be glad to discard. But a day or two later we received a note at the Yard. It was anonymous, scrawled.’

‘Ah,’ said Harcourt, thinking of the note, also an anonymous scrawl, which he had received with the knife in the box.

‘I have it here,’ said Traynor, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He passed it to Harcourt. The Superintendent read: ‘LOOK TO DOCTER TONY HE MURDERED THOSE 2 IN NORWOOD’. Harcourt returned the paper and looked enquiringly at Traynor.

‘Interesting, eh? Now usually such a note – and we get them from time to time at the Yard – would not take us much further. Who is to say that this is not simply a malicious or mischievous communication? But the writer of it knew something. He knew that this was a case of murder even though the deaths had initially been reported as a household accident. And then we had a stroke of luck. One of our detectives on the metropolitan force makes it his business to be familiar with the area of London round Rosemary Street. He knows its courts and alleys, he knows many of its disreputable inhabitants. He knows too of a gentleman called Tony, Doctor Tony, who lodges in the vicinity. No last name at that stage but it appears he might have been a genuine medical man once. Of him we could find no trace. But we did lay our hands on an individual called George Forester of the Old Mint, which is near Rosemary Street. It did not take long to break Forester. It turned out that he was the writer of the note. He confessed soon enough. He said he felt under some sort of obligation to this Tony, claimed that the doctor had saved the life of one of his children and that ever since he, George, had run the odd errand on the doctor’s behalf.’

‘I see.’

‘One of the things he had done recently was to spy on a couple of dwellings, one of which belonged to the Seldons. Doctor Tony had requested this and George did it without thinking very much about the reasons. When he heard about the death of the Seldons he put two and two together. George is not a bad fellow even if he has had the odd brush with the law in his younger days. He didn’t want to sing out direct to us so he wrote that note, hoping we’d nab Tony without involving him. Fact is, though, I think he was relieved when we hauled him in. Said it had been weighing on his conscience. He told us everything. We didn’t even have to threaten him with being an accessory.’

‘So this doctor – this Tony – turned on the gas taps in the policeman’s house. Do you know why, Inspector?’

‘We’ve been doing a bit of deep digging, which is our method at the Yard. We reviewed all the arrests which Seldon had been present at. We looked at cases where he had given testimony in court. And we discovered that Seldon had recently been involved in a case against a medium – what’s the matter?’

Traynor hesitated. At the mention of the word ‘medium’, Harcourt had given a start.

‘It’s nothing,’ said the Superintendent. ‘A coincidence perhaps. I’ll explain in a moment.’

‘Well, there was to be a prosecution against the medium under the Vagrancy Act. Seldon had attended a seance at which a man called Ernest Smight accepted money in exchange for his predictions. No great crime perhaps but it is still an offence. We don’t always concern ourselves with such matters but someone high-up had laid a complaint against Smight, and we were obliged to investigate. Ernest Smight was due to appear before the magistrates. It wasn’t the first offence either so he might have served a few months inside.’

‘But something happened?’

‘You might say so, Superintendent. Smight threw himself off Waterloo Bridge. Obviously he thought he was facing financial ruin and penury. He preferred the cold waters of the Thames to prison gruel. He has a sister who assisted him in his presentations and she as good as accused the police of bringing about his demise. He also has a brother who has gone much further than words. By a combination of close questioning of Miss Smight and keeping our ear to the ground, we have established that George’s friend Tony is Doctor Anthony Smight. He has assorted letters after his name and might once have enjoyed a respectable practice. But he allowed himself to sink in the world. He haunts an opium den near the London docks, having acquired a taste for it out in the East. He consorts with dubious men and loose women. He occasionally does a good turn, as he did when he attended that child of George’s, but in general his life is one of indolence and vice. However, he has never committed murder – until now!’

Inspector Traynor paused in his recital. In his quiet way he had been leading up to this climax. Only he wasn’t quite done.

‘We believe that Tony – Doctor Smight – with his brains addled by years of dope-smoking and moral turpitude has embarked on a reckless homicidal course. He may not even care if he is caught provided he has accomplished his grim task. He is determined to revenge himself on those he regards as responsible for his brother’s suicide. There were six people at the seance in Tullis Street. Two of them are believers and played no part in the unmasking of Ernest. Two more are already dead, Mr and Mrs Seldon, the policeman and his wife. And there is a third couple whose lives, we consider, are in real danger. And they are currently in Durham.’

Finally, thought Harcourt as he struggled to keep his head in this whirlwind of explanation, we have arrived at the reason for Traynor’s presence.

‘We have made discreet enquiries – which is also our method at the Yard – and have found that they are here on a visit. The lady has an aunt who lives in the city and they are staying with her.’

This time Harcourt didn’t give a start. But he was pretty certain he knew who the aunt was, and the couple too. Nevertheless he asked Traynor for their names.

‘The aunt is called Miss Julia Howlett,’ said the Inspector. ‘Helen Ansell is her niece. She and her husband Thomas were the others present at that fateful seance. Mr Ansell is a lawyer and it seems as though he may have helped to expose Smight. He and his wife would have been called as witnesses if the affair had gone before the bench. Miss Smight, the sister, gave these names to her doctor brother – she says now she had no idea of his murderous purpose, although I am not sure that I believe her. The danger to the Ansells is plain as day. We have reason to believe that Anthony Smight is also in the city. An individual of his description was seen boarding the northbound train from the London terminal at about the time the Ansells left the city.’

Frank Harcourt said, ‘I have met Mr and Mrs Ansell in somewhat unfortunate circumstances. It may be hard to believe but Mrs Ansell was briefly suspected of an involvement in our murder, I mean the murder of Eustace Flask.’

Now it was Traynor’s turn to look both baffled and curious, insofar as his bland face could register those reactions. Frank Harcourt gave a brief account of Flask’s death and the reason for the apprehending of Helen Ansell. He described the strange delivery of the cardboard box with the knife to the police station. He hinted at a plethora of suspects but also that an arrest could not be far off. Then he mentioned that Flask was a medium.

‘What! Why didn’t you say so at first, Superintendent?’

‘It did not seem relevant, Inspector. I was not aware that your own case was connected to a medium. Besides, yours took his own life while Flask had his taken from him.’

‘A coincidence, no doubt,’ said William Traynor, ‘but unsettling as coincidences may sometimes be.’

‘What are you going to do? Do you intend to alert the Ansells to their danger?’

‘Yes. I will require you to call on the resources of the Durham force to, ah, keep an eye on them. And we will need to be on the lookout for Dr Tony. I have a likeness of him.’

Traynor unfastened his portmanteau and drew out a sheaf of papers, one of which he passed to Harcourt. The Superintendent looked at a drawing of a thin-faced man in late middle-age. His face was creased with lines and the police artist had put a malicious glint in his eyes.

‘It was George Forester who provided most of the detail for that,’ said Traynor, ‘but we also called on Smight’s sister for confirmation. Her position is more serious than Forester’s and we may charge her as an accessory. Doctor Smight has a sallow complexion to the point of yellowness. He is about six feet tall and he is thin. Few of these addicts waste their time in eating, you know, Superintendent. You must distribute that picture and the other facts I’ve mentioned to all the men in the city force. How many constables have you?’

‘Sixty-five for the city and the surrounding area.’

‘Good. You should take personal charge of passing on these details, although I would like to be able to attend when you do. But every constable should know that this is a dangerous man, one we suspect is already responsible for two deaths and one who is on a quest for more victims in Durham.’

‘Of course,’ said Harcourt, slightly irritated that the Yard man was telling him how to do his job. He said, ‘Shouldn’t we be distributing this picture to the newspapers.’

‘No,’ said Traynor firmly. ‘I do not want Smight alerted to the fact that we are looking for him. He will only go to ground. Besides, in my experience, if you provide a picture of a wanted man for the public to pore over, you receive a hundred false sightings for anything genuine.’

‘Very well.’

‘Next we should call on Mr and Mrs Ansell and alert them to their, ah, predicament. And tonight I will take up your most kind offer of accommodation.’

Harcourt summoned Humphries to take Traynor’s portmanteau direct to his house in Hallgarth Street. He instructed the constable to inform his wife that they were expecting an important visitor from Great Scotland Yard. Then he and Traynor went to Julia Howlett’s house in the South Bailey, only to find that neither Tom nor Helen was there. They had apparently gone to the County Hotel.

The police officers did not want to cause alarm by mentioning the reason for their visit or even hinting at the existence of ‘Doctor Tony’, but Harcourt – prompted by the Inspector – did tell the housekeeper to check on the locks and bolts and shutters. He said that there was a particularly skilful housebreaker at large. This was the story the men had agreed on beforehand.