The Durham deception

The Mission

Tom and Helen Ansell had gone to visit Mr Smight at the suggestion of Helen’s mother. A week before the seance the couple had been having tea with Mrs Scott at the Highbury house, an occasional Sunday ritual. Although Tom no longer regarded his mother-in-law as a dragon-lady, which was his view of her before the marriage, and although he had even caused her to break into a smile once or twice, he didn’t enjoy these occasions much. Mrs Scott would quiz him about Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie, in which she still felt a proprietorial interest, or she’d comment on Helen’s appetite – which was either too feeble or too eager – as a roundabout way of establishing whether there might soon be a happy announcement.

This time, though, it was obvious that there was something more on her mind than the law or babies. They’d hardly made a start on the anchovy toast and the ham sandwiches before Mrs Scott said, ‘Helen, do you remember your Aunt Julia?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘You were always her favourite when you were little.’

‘It is many years since I saw her.’

‘She particularly mentioned you in her last letter. She hopes that married life suits you. She never married, you know, although she was the oldest of us.’

As Mrs Scott talked about her family, with an uneaten ham sandwich in her hand, she was looking not at her daughter but at Tom, who asked himself where this conversation was heading. Helen sometimes mentioned her aunt Julia Howlett in a fond but distant way.

‘Married life suits us very well, mother,’ said Helen.

‘Your aunt will be glad to hear it when I next write to her. She was wondering when she might see the happy couple.’

‘Aunt Julia lives in Durham, doesn’t she?’

‘Yes. They have a fine cathedral there, I believe.’

‘I don’t think we have any plans to travel so far north at the moment,’ said Tom, sensing that Mrs Scott had an axe to grind and that it would shortly emerge from its hiding place.

As a sign of her seriousness Mrs Scott replaced the ham sandwich, untouched, on the plate. She said, ‘To be honest, my dears, I was wondering whether you could make plans to travel so far north. There is a railway line from London. I don’t think the city of Durham is inside the polar regions.’

There was a pause. Tom was still recovering from Mrs Scott’s attempt at making a joke when Helen said, ‘Mother, why don’t you tell us what’s on your mind? It has been plain ever since you mentioned Aunt Julia that there’s something bothering you.’

‘Why yes, there is.’

‘What is it?’

‘I do not know whether it is because your aunt is unmarried but she never seems to have acquired – how shall I put this? – she has never acquired an inoculation against men.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that poor Julia never learned to close her ears to half – no, to three quarters – of what men are saying. Their stuff and nonsense if you’ll forgive me, Thomas. The poor thing has always had an open heart. An open heart and an open purse.’

Ah, thought Tom, here it comes. Money has been mentioned.

‘There was a missionary preacher a few years ago who was raising subscriptions for the unfortunate natives in some part of Africa, and your Aunt Julia was more than generous in giving him money,’ said Mrs Scott. ‘The fellow was no more a preacher than I am. He had one wife in Bradford and a second one in Newcastle, and probably other wives elsewhere. Certainly he had no intention of sending the money to Africa. He went to prison eventually, I am glad to say. It was reported in the papers. But Julia never saw her money again.’

‘And now another preacher has appeared?’

‘Not exactly. This time it is one of those spiritualists who claim to be in touch with the departed. A gentleman called Eustace Flask. Apparently he is making a name for himself in Yorkshire and Durham. And your aunt has fallen under his spell.’

‘You make him sound like a magician,’ said Tom.

‘I wish he were,’ said Mrs Scott. ‘At least magicians are honest. They make a virtue of their trickery.’

‘Where is the harm in Aunt Julia consulting a medium?’ said Helen. ‘Plenty of people visit mediums.’

‘No doubt; but they aren’t usually told to hand over their fortunes.’

Yes, here comes the money, thought Tom, helping himself to another piece of anchovy toast. Helen said, ‘I knew Aunt Julia was well-off but I didn’t know she had a fortune.’

‘I may exaggerate but not much. Julia has always been lucky with money even though she knows nothing about it. Indeed, I sometimes think she is lucky precisely because she is ignorant. Our father left each of us girls a small but adequate sum when he died but only Julia managed to make it grow by investing it in – oh I don’t know what – in the railways and mining stock and the like. And I believe she did no more than put a pin in a list in the newspaper! She puts her good fortune down to Providence. The result is that she is thoroughly comfortable and never has to lift a finger and I am glad for her because there is nothing worse than a crabbed old spinster living in poverty. But I almost wish she were poor because then she would not be preyed on by these tricksters!’

Mrs Scott took up the ham sandwich again and tore into it with as much vigour as if she were savaging the leg of a trickster. Helen glanced at Tom. Her glance said, this is serious. When her mother had swallowed the sandwich and regained a bit of control, she went on, ‘Now this Eustace Flask person has persuaded your Aunt Julia that he is in touch with the spirit of our late father, and that he is instructing Julia to treat Flask like a son. The son she might have had if she were married! The spirit says that Flask is to be provided with a very generous allowance. She has already given him a handful of small cheques. It is an outrage!’

‘Have some more tea, mother,’ said Helen and she fussed over the pot and strainer and milk jug so as to give Mrs Scott time to calm down.

Eventually, Mrs Scott said, ‘I am sorry, my dears, but I am very indignant over this. It is not so much that Julia is throwing away her money on a charlatan. It is that this wretched Flask person is invoking father in order to trick her. Helen, you can scarcely remember your Howlett grandfather, I suppose?’

‘Not much, I’m afraid. An upright gentleman with tickly whiskers.’

‘Yes, that will do. An upright gentleman. He would have had no time for these mediums and spiritualists if they had existed in his day. He would have called them humbugs. I can hear him saying the word now. So it is especially insulting that this wretch should invoke my father and pretend to be receiving instructions from him over on the other side. Thomas, would you mind bringing me that box?’

Tom went to a sideboard and brought back a little box which Mrs Scott unfolded on her lap to reveal a portable writing-block. Inside there was a flat baize-covered surface and holders for pens and an inkpot. Mrs Scott opened a compartment beneath the green baize and took out an envelope. From it she extracted a photograph which she passed to Helen who, after examining the picture for a few moments, handed it to Tom.

It was a small version of a studio portrait. A man sat in an armchair which was turned at a slight angle from the camera. He had a narrow face. Tom had the impression of very pale skin although that might have been the result of the studio lighting. It was difficult to get much of a sense of what he looked like because something had gone wrong with the exposure of the picture and everything appeared bleached. Nevertheless the man was smiling in welcome, as if to say: ‘Here I am. What is it that you require of me?’ His hands, resting limply on the arms of the chair, were long and the fingers adorned with rings.

‘That is Mr Eustace Flask,’ said Mrs Scott. ‘You can see how besotted my sister is by the way she describes him in the letter which came with that photograph. She talks about his delicate complexion and his noble brow and piercing stare. She talks of the face of an angel in human guise. I can’t see any of it myself.’

‘Why did she send you the picture?’ said Tom.

‘She is like a young girl who has fallen in love for the first time and wishes all the world to see her sweetheart. Yet she is in her seventies!’

‘What can we do?’ said Helen.

‘It is no good my writing to Julia to object to what she’s doing. Whatever I said she would only take it as more proof that she is right. Tom, you’re a lawyer. Is there any way this man could be stopped? Could he be prosecuted?’

Tom – who was always Tom and not Thomas to Mrs Scott when her guard was down – thought for a while. He said, ‘I don’t think so. As long as your sister Julia is in her right mind and provided she is not under any kind of duress, well, she is free to dispose of her property and goods as she wants. Do you know how much she has given him already?’

‘Not so much, I believe. This Flask individual seems to be very clever in his approach. He turns down the money for a first time and then a second time before accepting it, with reluctance, only when Julia tells him it is a contribution for the cause. The cause of spiritualism. He pretends to deny himself. She feels sorry for him as if he really were her son. She tells him he must take care of himself and wrap up warmly and eat properly, he is so thin and careworn. He may be thin but he does not look careworn to me in that photograph. It is sickening, I tell you, to see how she is being duped. In her last letter she said that she was considering making Flask an allowance because her father had indicated that was an appropriate course of action. Her father, our father, speaking through Mr Flask!’

‘Perhaps Aunt Julia will see the light,’ said Helen. ‘Perhaps she’ll suddenly see this man Flask for what he is.’

‘Julia is too trusting. She still believes that the last one, the preacher with several wives, was essentially a good man tempted by Jezebels. I fear there is worse to come in this crisis. Her most recent letter, the one in which she enclosed the photograph so that I might admire her angelic medium, talked about her own failing health. She hinted she was not much longer for this vale of tears. If Julia is really in a weakened condition – although I must say that her handwriting was quite firm – then there’s no saying what mischief Flask might wreak.’

‘You mean he might prevail on her to change the terms of her will.’

‘That is exactly what I mean, Thomas. It is bad enough her giving out a few hundred pounds here and there but to think of her whole estate falling into this trickster’s hands… well, that is too terrible to contemplate. The shame for the family, not to mention Julia herself. No, there is only one hope…’

‘What is that, mother?’

‘I would like you and dear Thomas here to undertake a mission for me. Will you travel up to Durham and see your Aunt Julia for yourselves? You were always her favourite, Helen, as I said. She would listen to you where she would turn a deaf ear to me. And Thomas, with his knowledge of the law, might be able to do something. Perhaps he could confront this dreadful Flask. Threaten him.’

The very vagueness of what Mrs Scott was suggesting showed her desperation. Tom was not very enthusiastic, not so much because he didn’t sympathize with his mother-in-law – though he didn’t, greatly – but because he thought any intervention might well make things worse. Fortunately Helen said, ‘I do not know how easily Tom could free himself from work. I could go by myself, I suppose?’

‘On no account, Helen,’ said her mother. ‘For all I know, Eustace Flask has a gang of ruffians and minions under his command despite his angelic countenance. No, you need a man with you.’

Normally this would have been the kind of remark to get Helen packing her bags and catching the first train north but she seemed curiously prepared to accept her mother’s ban. It seemed that something had to be done, however, so Tom and Helen eventually agreed to consider a Durham visit. They might, said Mrs Scott, make a bit of a holiday out of it. In any case, Aunt Julia would be delighted to see her niece after so many years. And her new husband, of course.

Mrs Scott’s mood brightened. She started on the cakes and urged the others to tuck in. She explained that she’d been thinking it might be good for Tom and Helen to get the measure of the enemy – those were the words she used, ‘the enemy’ – by attending a seance here in London before they travelled north. Tom noticed how what had been a possibility was now a fact: they were going to visit Durham. He listened as Helen’s mother talked about a medium who lived in Tullis Street, whose sister she and Julia had known many years ago. She had discovered that the man, Ernest Smight, held regular sessions every Sunday evening. Perhaps Tom and dear Helen might just look in on Tullis Street next week?

This was how it came about that Tom received a message from his long-dead father and how an equally dead cat, run over in the Fulham Road, was resurrected as the spirit of Mrs Seldon’s first husband. And soon after that other things occurred which made the Durham visit even more of a certainty.

Death by Water

It was a few days after the Sunday seance that Mr Ashley the senior clerk at Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie told Tom that Mr David Mackenzie wished to see him. Ashley, the clerk, had been with the firm longer than anyone. As a mark of his status, he had a separate office which no one would have dreamed of entering without knocking first. Tom was told to go and see Ashley by another of the juniors, a pleasant chap called William Evers. This was how it worked at the firm. Someone told you to go and see Ashley, who in turn told you what you had to do next.

Tom duly knocked and walked in without waiting for permission. By now he was on quite good terms with Ashley. Marrying the daughter of one of the founding partners had, perhaps surprisingly, not counted against him. Tom sensed that Ashley didn’t actively disapprove of him, which was probably as enthusiastic an endorsement as he was going to get.

The senior clerk looked up from a pile of papers and folders. Gifted with a prodigious memory, he had a high forehead which was permanently creased. Tom thought of the interior of his head as an orderly storehouse with details from different years, different decades even, filed away on each level.

‘Mr Mackenzie wishes to see you at your earliest convenience, Mr Ansell. Which we may translate as straightaway.’

‘Do you know why?’

There was a time when Tom wouldn’t have asked such a question and Ashley wouldn’t have deigned to answer it. Now he said, ‘I do know why. A strange affair. Come and have a word with me when you’re finished if you like.’

Tom went along the passage to Mackenzie’s chamber. He knocked and this time waited to be told to enter. As usual, it was hard to make out much of the interior because of the pipe smoke. Mackenzie waved away a cloud or two and, his teeth gripping the pipe stem, gestured at Tom to sit down on the other side of his desk. With his tonsure of white hair and wide, benevolent face, Mackenzie looked like a monk or a universal uncle. But he was quick and canny.

‘How are you, Thomas? Married life suiting you, ha?’

Odd how often that question came up. Tom used his wife’s answer: ‘It suits us well.’

‘Good, good. Time will tell, you know. It usually does.’

Having dispersed a few more parcels of smoke, David Mackenzie got down to business. At least Tom assumed it was business despite the oddness of his next question.

‘Know any magicians?’

‘ Magicians? No, I don’t know any magicians, sir. I’ve seen Dr Pepper’s Ghost and the Corsican Trapdoor in the theatre.’

‘The Trapdoor was Boucicault’s idea,’ said Mackenzie, showing an unexpected familiarity with stage magic. ‘So you have never seen Major Sebastian Marmont?’

‘Nor heard of him, I’m afraid.’

‘He has a touring show during which he displays some magic feats he learned in the orient.’

‘What they call “the mysterious east”,’ said Tom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘In Durham?’

‘Yes, a very fine city.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Lucknow?’

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

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

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

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

‘The siege in the Mutiny?’

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

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

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

‘But now the rumours have started again.’

‘So it seems.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr Smight, believed to be in his early sixties, was a well-known medium who had practised his trade for many years in the purlieus of Tottenham Court Road. According to the authorities his establishment in Tullis Street had recently been visited by members of the police force who were acting on information received. His sister Miss Ethel Smight, who used to assist Mr Smight in his sittings, said that her brother was deeply upset by the intrusion of the police into affairs that were confidential and ‘of a delicate nature’. She went so far as to talk of ‘persecution’. Although she was too overwrought to speculate as to why her brother might have taken his own life, if that is what has occurred, we understood that the unfortunate demise of this individual may be connected with the possibility of a forthcoming legal action. A coroner’s jury will shortly pronounce on the death of Mr Ernest Smight.

‘Oh God,’ said Tom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘About us?’

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

‘Sounds innocent enough,’ said Tom.

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

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

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

‘Coincidence,’ said Tom.

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

‘What did he look like?’

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

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

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

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

It was all very odd.