To friends Barry Forshaw and Peter Guttridge

– two fellows in the know

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

1     The Curzon Street Conundrum

2     The Puzzle of the Innocent Murderer

3     The Mystery of the Missing Black Pearl

4     The Riddle of the Visiting Angel

5     The Curse of the Griswold Phantom

6     The Vampire Murders Intrigue

7     The Illusion of the Disappearing Man

About the Author

Copyright

‘Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon logic rather than upon the crime you should dwell.’

Sherlock Holmes in The Copper Beeches

by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

1

THE CURZON STREET CONUNDRUM

Blood was flowing from the wound, forming a neat crimson pool on the carpet. But at least now he was safe. Surely he was safe? And the wound … well, certainly it was serious, but not fatal. He would survive. He tried to reassure himself of this fact as darkness edged in from all corners of his vision, like ink seeping across blotting paper.

Inspector Edward Thornton leaned forward and gazed out of the tiny window of his office in the upper reaches of Scotland Yard. It was a cold November day in 1897 and grey swirls of fog wreathed the adjacent rooftops, reducing them to vague silhouettes. They loomed like giant ghosts, ready to envelop the building.

Thornton sighed wearily at this fancy that so easily took his mind from the very difficult matter in hand. Sergeant Grey looked up from the case notes he was scribbling in his crabbed hand. ‘It’s not that Curzon Street business is it, sir?’

Thornton replied without moving. ‘Of course it is, Grey. There is something not quite right about it, but I cannot fathom out what it is.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. We’ve got the blighter who done it safely locked up in the cells. Case solved.’

‘Oh, yes, we have someone locked up in the cells, but I’m not so sure it’s the “blighter who done it”. And if Armstrong really is the murderer, we have so little evidence.’

‘There was the blood on his coat.’

‘Blood on his coat and the knowledge that he was in great debt to the murdered man. There’s not enough material there to weave a hangman’s hood, Grey. A good lawyer would blow those flimsy suppositions away in no time. And besides, I need to know how the crime was committed and how the murderer escaped from a locked room.’

Grey dropped his pen on the desk in a gesture of mild irritation. ‘Then you know what to do, sir. You know where to go. Don’t you? When you’ve had a real puzzle in the past…’

Thornton turned to his sergeant and pulled his thin, pale face into a mournful grimace. ‘Oh, I know all right. I don’t need you to tell me. Luther Darke. I have been trying to put off that inevitability for some time.’ He stroked his chin in an absent-minded fashion as his eyes flickered with mild irritation. ‘There is an element of humiliation in seeking his help. It’s an admittance of defeat.’

‘Go on, sir. Go and see him. At least it will put your mind at rest.’

Thornton emitted a sigh of resignation and returned his gaze to the grey curtain of fog beyond the windows.

Luther Darke poured himself a large whisky and sat back in his chair. As he did so, a lithe black cat leapt onto his lap with practised ease, curled up tightly, and began to purr. Absent-mindedly, he stroked the contented creature as he stared across at his visitor, his dark brown eyes shining. He raised his glass in a mock toast. ‘It is good to see you again, Edward. I am sorry that you will not join me in a drink. However, I am sure it is a wise move. Respectable gentlemen should not drink before noon, and then decorum decrees that it should be a sherry aperitif.’ He took a gulp of whisky, rolling it around his mouth. ‘Whisky is the milk of the Gods; sherry is their urine.’

Thornton remained silent. Like an actor waiting for his cue, he knew when it would be his time to speak. This preamble was a variant of the usual extravagant felicitations that he always experienced when he visited Luther Darke.

‘To be honest, Edward, I am surprised to see you under my roof once more,’ said his host, affably. ‘You disagreed with me so strongly in the Baranokov affair – until my theory was proved correct that triplets had been used as a ploy in the theft of diamonds – that I thought I had lost your friendship for ever.’

Thornton blushed slightly; partly for being reminded of his failure in the Baranokov case, and partly because this strange man referred to him as a friend. He didn’t think anyone could get close enough to Darke to become his friend. He was too enigmatic, too self-possessed, too complicated to give himself to straightforward friendship. There was Carla, of course, his lover, but she in her own way was just as mysterious and enigmatic as Darke himself.

Luther Darke was the son of a duke but, because of his undisciplined and outrageous behaviour, he had become estranged from his widowed father at an early age. He had been a rebel and hated the arrogance and pomposity of the aristocracy. Although Darke had inherited a considerable amount of money on his father’s death, he had passed over the title and the family home to his younger brother, of whom he saw little. Ducal respectability and responsibility were abhorrent to him. He now occupied most of his time in being an artist – a portrait painter – and was gaining a growing reputation for his work. But even here, his energies were erratic. On a whim he would drop his brush halfway through a painting in order to follow up one of his other passions, which were very varied and eclectic. He had a fascination for the unexplained and the unknown. He took a great interest in the work of spiritualist mediums and unsolved crimes. It was his offer of assistance in the Carmichael mystery, when Foreign Office official Ralph Carmichael, his wife and two children – along with their pet spaniel – apparently disappeared into thin air that had brought Inspector Thornton into contact with this unique individual for the first time. Darke helped to solve the case and Thornton had sought his assistance several times since. However, after the Baranokov affair, over which they had disagreed violently, there had been a rift in their relationship. Thornton was well aware that it was he who, suffering from the humiliation of being proved wrong, had turned his back on his strange associate. But here he was again, seeking Darke’s assistance and hoping earnestly that it would be offered.

Luther Darke took another gulp of whisky. ‘Ah, we see the world from different hilltops, you and I, Edward. You are the professional, scientific detective with a demand for rationality and feasibility; whereas I am the amateur, an artist, doomed to view things from a different angle and able to see shifting and often unusual perspectives. We are two halves of the perfect whole.’ He grinned at his own conceit and his eyes glittered mischievously. He had a broad, mobile saturnine face that possessed a wide, fleshy mouth. Dark, expressive eyebrows topped a pair of soft brown eyes that radiated warmth. His head was framed by a mane of luxurious hazel-coloured hair. He would have been handsome, but the crooked nose, broken in one of the many fights he had at school, robbed him of the classical symmetry of male beauty. He was not handsome then, but he had a magnetic presence that compelled one to watch his face with fascination as Thornton did. Every conversation was a performance. It was as though he was acting out his life.

‘So, enough teasing. The Curzon Street murder? Am I right?’

Thornton nodded. ‘I am not happy about it.’

‘From what I have read in the papers, the case seems a straightforward one.’ Darke placed his whisky glass on the table by his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘Let me see. Shipping magnate Laurence Wilberforce is murdered at his Curzon Street mansion – stabbed – and one of the guests in his house at the time was a certain Richard Armstrong, who owed the magnate a considerable amount of money that he could not repay. To make matters worse, I believe that blood was found smeared on the wretched fellow’s overcoat. Have I caught the essence of the matter?’

Thornton gave a thin smile. ‘You knew I’d come to you.’

Darke’s eyes twinkled with humour. ‘Indeed, I did. I was sure my worthy Thornton would not be taken in by such a simplistic solution. No doubt your superiors are quite content with Armstrong’s arrest and cannot wait to see him dangling at the end of a rope.’

‘They are indeed, despite the fact that one essential element of the case still remains a mystery.’

‘And that is?’

‘How the murder was committed.’

Darke laughed. ‘Just a minor irritation. Not worth considering, surely? Pull the lever and let’s have done with the scoundrel.’

Thornton’s sensitive face darkened. There was more truth in Darke’s flippant observations than was comfortable.

‘I presume that Armstrong has not confessed in some fit of madness?’

‘On the contrary, he professes his innocence most strongly.’

Darke beamed, his face alive with excitement. ‘So, young friend, we have come to that precious, that essential moment: give me the facts. Give me the minutiae.’

Thornton nodded. ‘Do you mind if I walk about while I talk? It will help me recall the details more clearly.’

‘The house is yours.’

‘This room will do.’

‘That’s one of the things I like about you, Edward. You are so literal. Pray begin.’

‘The murder occurred three nights ago at the Curzon Street mansion of Laurence Wilberforce. There was a small dinner party with six guests, business associates of Wilberforce, some of whom brought their wives.’

‘Armstrong’s wife was there?’

‘He’s a widower.’

‘Ah. Another avenue closed. Resume.’

‘There were Lord and Lady Clarendon; Mr Clive Brownlow, the Member of Parliament for Slough and his wife, Sarah; Jack Stavely, a junior partner in one of Wilberforce’s concerns and apparently very much a blue-eyed boy. And Armstrong.’

‘And Armstrong.’

‘Richard Armstrong who until recently worked for Wilberforce as a designer but left twelve months ago to set up his own business, helped by a generous loan from his old boss. But part of the arrangement was that he had to pay the money back within the year.’

‘How much?’

‘£5,000.’

Darke pursed his lips. ‘A considerable sum.’

‘One which he could not repay.’

‘You know this for certain?’

‘Indeed. He freely admits it. His business is in great financial difficulties. Only the previous week he had written to Wilberforce asking for more time to settle the debt.’

‘And the old boy refused?’

Thornton nodded. ‘Apparently Wilberforce was a harsh, unsentimental man in business.’

‘And that is seen as a motive for murder.’

Thornton nodded.

‘Very well. So what happened?’

‘All the guests had arrived, but Wilberforce had not shown his face. Mrs Wilberforce, Beatrice, was somewhat annoyed at his non-appearance. Apparently, he had retired upstairs to his dressing room over an hour before and had not been seen since. She sent up their butler, a fellow called Boldwood, to inform him that the guests had arrived. The butler returned some minutes later to say that Wilberforce was not in his dressing room, but that the door to his study, a chamber that adjoined the dressing room, was locked and a light could been seen at the bottom of the door. Somewhat concerned, Mrs Wilberforce asked Jack Stavely to go upstairs with her to investigate. It was as the butler had said. The study door was not only locked, but it was bolted – and bolted from the inside, thus clearly indicating that there was someone within. After knocking on the door for some moments to no avail, it was felt that perhaps Wilberforce had fallen ill and was in no fit state to withdraw the bolt. With Mrs Wilberforce’s permission, Jack Stavely broke the door down. And what a tragic sight met their eyes.’

‘Describe this tragic sight.’

‘Lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood was the master of the house. Near to his body was a long-bladed knife. The man was dead.’

Darke rubbed his hands with glee. ‘Fascinating. One assumes he died as a result of being stabbed.’

‘There was just one knife wound to the stomach.’

‘A pretty puzzle, Edward. How could the murderer leave the room if it was bolted on the inside?’

‘Precisely.’

‘There is no suggestion that this was an elaborate suicide?’

The policeman shook his head. ‘Practically it is possible, I suppose, but it would take tremendous courage to stab oneself in the stomach in such a way. However, I am certain that it was not suicide. There was no reason for him to take his life. Life was very good for Laurence Wilberforce. I’ve checked both his medical records and his financial situation. He was very healthy in both departments. And besides, suicide was just not Wilberforce’s way.’

‘Well, let’s hear the end of this captivating tale.’

‘The Yard was summoned and I was assigned to the case. Before I arrived, Jack Stavely discovered one of the visitors’ coats smeared with fresh blood. It was still damp. It turned out that the coat belonged to Richard Armstrong. Stavely immediately accused Armstrong of the murder. Sergeant Grey had to restrain him from attacking Armstrong. Mrs Wilberforce then showed us a letter her husband had received from Armstrong, in which veiled threats were made to Wilberforce. He said he needed more time to pay his debts, adding something like … ‘if you are intent on breaking me on the wheel in this matter, the consequences will be far the worse for you.’

‘Nicely phrased. So on these two pieces of evidence – a smear of blood and an angry letter – you arrested Armstrong for the murder of Laurence Wilberforce.’

‘I had no alternative. Sometimes one has to do things one doesn’t believe in, especially as a public servant. But the more I’ve considered the matter, the less convinced I am that Armstrong is the guilty party. But I don’t know why. I think the key to the whole problem is how the murder was committed.’

‘Indeed. My very thought, too. Let us go back to this study for a moment. Describe it to me.’

‘It is a small room, some ten feet square. There was a fireplace, with a fire burning in the grate. The chimney aperture was too narrow to allow access.’

‘Even for a child?’

Thornton gaped. He hadn’t thought of that. ‘Even a child,’ he said at length.

‘Window?’

‘There was no window and no ceiling trap. We’ve had the carpet up and moved the desk and bookcase, which were the only pieces of furniture placed against a wall.’

‘So in essence what we have is a sealed box with a door.’

‘Yes. And that was bolted from the inside.’

‘A very pretty puzzle indeed, Inspector Thornton. I thank you for bringing it to my notice.’

‘But can you solve it?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Darke gave his companion a lazy grin. ‘All one needs to do is to view the problem from a different angle.’ With great care he lifted the sleeping cat from his lap and placed it down on the rug before the fire. It stirred fitfully in its slumbers and then, shifting its position slightly, returned to its feline dreams. ‘Sorry, Persephone, my friend,’ he murmured gently, ‘but I have to leave you now.’ Swilling the remainder of his whisky down, he turned to his visitor with enthusiasm. ‘What say you, Edward? I think it best if we visit the scene of crime together; then we can really get to grips with this mystery.’

The two men decided to walk from Darke’s town house in Manchester Square to Curzon Street. ‘The sharp autumnal air will revitalise the brain cells,’ Darke observed as George, his manservant, helped him on with his overcoat.

Although it was only just after noon, the November day was already darkening, and the fog that earlier had begun to disperse was now thickening and closing in once more, cloaking the city in a bleary haze. Their fellow pedestrians loomed as dark silhouetted phantoms before them. It was the sort of weather that Darke liked, and he felt at home in its sooty embrace.

‘Tell me about Wilberforce’s wife, Beatrice,’ he said, as Thornton fell into step with him. ‘Was she very upset when she found her husband?’

‘Naturally, she was distressed.’

‘But this distress quickly turned to anger.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, when the blood was discovered on Armstrong’s coat, you said she very promptly produced the letter with the well-phrased threat, determined to prove that he was the culprit. Her husband’s murderer.’

‘Yes.’

‘So the lady was able to repress her grief sufficiently to retrieve this missive, one which strengthens the guilt of Armstrong. All which suggests that anger, rather than grief, was governing her actions. What do you know of their marriage?’

‘There was very little gossip about it. They have been married for twenty-two years and have no children. It was rumoured that in the early days Laurence Wilberforce was something of a ladies’ man, but…’

‘Age cools the ardour, eh? I met the man once. A cold fish, as I recall. There was no humour or joie de vivre in his demeanour.’

‘A business man.’

Darke laughed heartily. ‘Precisely – you put your finger on it, Edward. The concerns of profit and loss place a handcuff on your soul.’

‘Do you suspect Mrs Wilberforce of the murder?’

‘No more than Armstrong, I suppose,’ said Darke. ‘In one sense she is the natural beneficiary: she loses a humourless husband and inherits his wealth. Motives enough, you will agree.’

Edward Thornton fell silent. An image of Beatrice Wilberforce flashed into his mind. A small, slender woman in her late forties, with her blonde hair turning grey. Her pale, rather pinched face had once been girlishly pretty but now it was set ready, eager almost, for old age. Did she have the determination and malevolence to carry out the cold-blooded murder of her husband and then implicate Armstrong? Well, even if she did, how did she do it? That problem remained.

Thornton’s reverie was broken by Darke’s announcement: ‘Well, my boy, it seems that we have arrived at our destination.’

Sure enough, the two men stood before the Wilberforce mansion in Curzon Street. The lights from the windows shimmered through the moist net of the fog.

‘Lay on, Macduff,’ cried Darke, pushing the inspector towards the door.

The butler, Boldwood, received the visitors and invited them to wait in the hall while he informed his mistress of their presence. He was a tall, dignified man, prematurely bald, with a naturally reserved and melancholic manner. As he walked away in a stiff, erect fashion, Darke nudged his companion. ‘By the look of his gait, our friend Boldwood was recruited from the ranks – an ex-soldier, sergeant probably – and that scar on his neck suggests that he has seen some action.’

‘Is that relevant to the case?’

Darke grinned and shrugged his shoulders in a nonchalant fashion.

Within minutes, Boldwood returned. ‘Mrs Wilberforce will see you in the drawing room, but I beg you gentlemen to keep your visit as short as possible. My mistress has not yet recovered her strength after her terrible loss.’ Although couched in formal terms, the statement was more of an order than a request.

‘We shall be a brief as possible,’ said Thornton.

‘Served in India, did we, Boldwood?’ asked Luther Darke.

The butler eyed his interrogator with suspicion. ‘I did, sir. 101st Bengal Fusiliers.’

‘Good man. The rank of sergeant, I should guess.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Boldwood paused for a moment, staring intently into Darke’s face with some puzzlement, and then neatly turning on his heel, he led them to the drawing room. As he held the door open, Darke leaned over and addressed him again. ‘I think it would be propitious if you join us, Boldwood, old boy. You can help fill in certain pieces of the puzzle.’

Reluctantly the tall manservant entered the room and positioned himself by the door.

Beatrice Wilberforce rose from the chaise longue on which she had been reclining to greet her visitors. Her face was gaunt and dark circles ringed her pale blue eyes. She seemed not to notice Boldwood’s presence. She looked with some disdain at her two visitors.

‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ Her voice was weary and distant.

Before Thornton could respond to this request, Darke moved forward and gave a low theatrical bow. ‘I am the one you can assist, dear lady. Luther Darke, a seeker of truth.’

The woman seemed somewhat taken aback by this effusive stranger in her drawing room and involuntarily she sat down on the chaise longue as if she needed it for support.

‘Mr Darke is assisting me in my enquiries,’ ventured Thornton for clarification.

Mrs Wilberforce’s sour expression remained intact.

Darke moved closer to her and addressed her in the softest of tones. ‘I wonder if I can prevail upon you to recount the events on the evening of your husband’s passing,’ he said.

Beatrice Wilberforce glanced over at Thornton. ‘But I have already told the inspector everything I know several times.’

‘But you have not told me.’

A flicker of irritation passed across her brow, but it was gone in an instant. ‘If … if you think it will help.’

‘It may save a man’s life.’

Mrs Wilberforce seemed puzzled, but she made no comment on Darke’s enigmatic claim. In a firm, clear voice, she began to recount the events of the evening when her husband had died. ‘We were having a little dinner party – for no special reason. It was just a social occasion.’

‘Who drew up the guest list?’

‘I did … in consultation with my husband, of course.’

‘Of course. What was the purpose of inviting Richard Armstrong to this soirée? There was bad blood between him and Mr Wilberforce, was there not?’

‘It was my idea. The bad blood you refer to was purely a business matter and not personal on my husband’s side. Business was one thing; friendship another. Laurence was a strict man of business and he expected – and indeed demanded – others to be so. Sometimes this led him to act in what I suppose was regarded by some as an unreasonable manner – but he could be reasoned with. I thought that in a relaxed, informal atmosphere, some amicable arrangement between Armstrong…’ Her eyes misted and she clutched the edge of the chaise. Her lips tightened as she fought to control her feelings and it struck Darke that she was dismayed at betraying her own emotions. It seemed to him that she saw this as a great weakness. It wasn’t the memory of her husband or the events of that fateful evening that distressed Beatrice Wilberforce, but the cracks in her own reserve. ‘As it turned out,’ she said at length, ‘inviting that man to dinner was the worst decision I could have made.’

She reached for a handkerchief, but there was none. Darke flashed the cream silk one from his jacket breast pocket and pressed it into her hand. As he did so, his eyes were caught by a mark on the woman’s arm.

‘At what time did you last see your husband alive?’

‘At around six o’clock,’ Mrs Wilberforce replied, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘He said he was going to his study to write some letters and then have a long soak in the bath before the party.’

‘Were any letters found?’ This question Darke addressed to Thornton. The policeman shook his head.

‘Who laid out his evening clothes?’

‘Boldwood, of course.’

Darke turned to the butler with a quizzical glance.

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘Did you see your master while you attended to this task?’

‘No, sir. The study door was closed.’

Darke shut his eyes for a moment and sighed heavily. He raised his hand slightly as if he were reaching out for something. The room fell silent as the others waited for him to return to them. At length his eyes sprang open and, with a ghost of a smile playing about his lips, he resumed his questioning of Mrs Wilberforce. ‘Who were the first guests to arrive?’

‘I … I can’t really say for sure, everyone came more or less at the same time. I think Lord and Lady Clarendon were the first.’ She grinned briefly. ‘I know Jack Stavely was last – and late.’ Her grin broadened. ‘He’s always late.’

‘He comes here a great deal?’

Beatrice Wilberforce nodded, her face resuming its pained expression. ‘He is a regular visitor.’

‘You were cross when your husband did not appear to greet his guests.’

‘Yes. I felt sure he had become absorbed with his correspondence and lost track of the time. I asked Boldwood to check on him for me.’

With a wave of the hand, Darke indicated that Boldwood should come closer and join the inner circle. ‘Tell me, Sergeant Boldwood, what happened next?’

‘I went up to Mr Wilberforce’s dressing room. He wasn’t there and neither were his evening clothes, so I assumed that he had bathed and dressed and was now in his study. I tapped on the door. There was no reply. I tapped again, louder this time in case he had nodded off, and informed him that the guests for the party had arrived. There was still no reply. Then I tried the door. It was locked.’

‘Did he often lock it?’

‘Never when he was inside the room.’

‘What did you do next?’

‘I went downstairs to inform Mrs Wilberforce.’

‘Were you worried?’

‘I … I thought that it was strange.’

‘And then with Mrs Wilberforce and Jack Stavely, you returned to the room and Stavely broke down the study door.’

Boldwood nodded and bowed his head.

‘The door was bolted on the inside, Mrs Wilberforce. Is that correct?’

Suddenly the widow’s patience snapped and Darke witnessed the flame of anger that burned inside that soft and timid exterior. ‘You know it is! How long is this tirade of questions going on? Why must you put me under this torture yet again? I cannot tell you any more than I have already told you. My husband is dead and all you can do is make me relive that dreadful evening when he died. Have you no tact or manners?’

‘Gentlemen, I think it best if you leave,’ said Boldwood, taking a pace forward. There was more than a hint of aggression in his demeanour.

Darke grinned back at the butler. ‘Distressed though your mistress is, Sergeant Boldwood, I am sure that she is also very concerned that the person who killed her husband is caught and tried for his murder. She would not want to hinder the course of justice.’

‘But the police have caught him,’ snapped Mrs Wilberforce, the anger still vibrant in her voice. ‘Richard Armstrong. Inspector Thornton arrested him.’

‘An arrest doth not a conviction make. You seem so very certain that he was your husband’s murderer.’

Boldwood took another step nearer to Darke, his eyes blazing, but Beatrice Wilberforce stopped him in his tracks with a spirited glance.

‘In order to allow you to recover your equilibrium, Mrs Wilberforce,’ said Luther Darke smoothly, ‘perhaps you will allow Boldwood to show us your husband’s dressing room and study so that we may examine the scene of the crime?’

‘Yes.’ Her reply was hardy audible. ‘As you wish.’

As Boldwood led the two men upstairs, Thornton held his companion back a few steps and whispered in his ear. ‘You were rather harsh on the poor woman,’ he hissed.

Darke nodded. ‘I overstepped the bounds of decency – again. I shall repent. Boldwood, old fellow, pause a moment, will you? I just want to apologise for my brutish behaviour towards your mistress. It was unforgivable.’

The butler turned to face Darke; his face was stern. ‘I must confess, sir, if it had not been for the thought of disturbing Mrs Wilberforce further, I should have struck you for your insolence.’

‘And I should have deserved it. The lady is lucky in having such a chivalrous protector. You have been with her long?’

‘Five years.’

‘Mr Wilberforce was a good employer?’

‘He … he was, sir.’

‘They were a happy couple? The marriage was a sound one?’ Boldwood’s face blanched with anger. ‘How dare you! That is none of your damned business. What right have you to come here…?’

Darke halted this sudden outburst by holding up his hands in a mock surrender. ‘There I go again, overstepping the mark. I shall say no more. Pray continue.’

Without a word, the butler carried on up the stairs. Thornton and Darke followed, with the latter giving his companion a huge wink.

At length the two men were shown into the dressing room of the murdered man.

‘You can leave us now, Boldwood. Inspector Thornton and I need to inspect these rooms alone. We shall not be too long.’

The butler hesitated by the door.

Thornton gave a polite cough to initiate the servant’s departure. ‘Thank you, Boldwood. We shall make our own way downstairs.’

With reluctance, Boldwood left the room.

‘Now,’ said Darke, rubbing his hands, ‘show me this magic study.’

Thornton led him to the rear of the dressing room and flung open the study door to reveal a small, dark chamber beyond containing a desk, a chair and a small bookcase. There was a fireplace on the far wall. Thornton switched on the electric light, which bathed the study in a suffuse amber glow.

As soon as Darke had entered the room, he examined the door. ‘Was the key found to the study?’

‘No,’ said Thornton kneeling beside him. ‘But it was bolted, too, remember.’

‘Oh, indeed, I do remember. This is the poor thing hanging off here.’

‘It was damaged when Jack Stavely broke down the door.’

‘Mm. He did us something of a favour. Look here, Thornton, at these screws: they are new and the bolt is shiny and unmarked.’ He indicated where the bolt had been attached to the door. ‘Notice the portion of wood which had been covered by the bolt before Mr Stavely’s boot came into play. It is the same colour as the surrounding wood. There is no differentiation whatsoever.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘That this bolt is new, very new. It cannot have been there for very long. If it had been in place for any length of time, the wood beneath it would be of a different hue. See the screw holes, how white and fresh the wood is. And, my friend, most damning of all…’

Darke scooped up a few white specks from the carpet. ‘Sawdust,’ he explained. ‘From the screw holes. It is possible that the bolt was only fixed there on the day of the murder.’

‘This is all very well, but I fail to see how this throws any fresh light on the identity of the killer, or indeed on the way in which the murder was committed.’

‘Patience, my friend.’

Darke had now moved to the centre of the room and was examining a dark stain on the carpet. ‘Wilberforce’s blood, I suppose?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not as large a pool as I had expected, but that fits the theory which is forming nicely in my mind. I suppose the knife is at Scotland Yard.’

‘It is.’

‘Describe it to me.’

‘It’s a long-handled knife. Dull metal with some simple carvings and a longish blade which curves slightly at the end.’

Darke sat at the desk and sketched out a crude drawing. ‘Something like that?’

‘Why, yes…’ Before Thornton could say more, a strident voice called out: ‘What the Devil is going on here?’ Both men turned to discover a young man standing in the doorway of the study. He was short of stature and had his hands on his hips in an aggressive manner.

‘Mr Stavely,’ said Thornton.

‘Yes, Inspector, and you will answer to your superiors for this – barging into Mrs Wilberforce’s house and upsetting the lady.’

‘News travels fast, eh, Edward?’ observed Darke with a flicker of amusement.

‘You may do what you wish, Mr Stavely,’ said Thornton, approaching the intruder so that he towered over him comfortably. ‘But there is no case of “barging” anywhere. We were invited into the house, and as a police officer I am carrying out my duties in a murder enquiry. I would hope you have no wish to hinder that enquiry.’

Stavely hesitated. ‘But the enquiry is closed. You have the wretch who murdered Laurence.’

Darke joined his friend and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘It is amazing how everyone is so certain that an innocent man who had the misfortune to owe Wilberforce a lot of money is guilty of his murder.’

‘And who the hell are you?’

‘I, sir, am Abraham attempting to drink from the well of truth. And how did you learn of our visit?’

‘I have just arrived. I have called every day since the murder to spend some time with Beatrice, Mrs Wilberforce.’

‘And Boldwood informed you of my dreadful behaviour.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, sir, I have apologised to him and I will apologise to you. Any rudeness on my part was calculated in order to bring this mysterious case to a swift conclusion. I am afraid Boldwood may have been more concerned about what we may find in here rather than our apparent disrespectful ways. I suspect he was hoping that your heroic intervention would put a stop to our scrutiny of this chamber.’

Stavely’s face clouded with confusion. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Mr Stavely, let us do a deal together. I will tell you some of the matter, on the proviso that you help us with a little subterfuge. Is that agreed?’

It was just over thirty minutes later that Thornton and Darke sat in the drawing room with Beatrice Wilberforce and Jack Stavely. Boldwood had just served tea and was about to leave the room when Thornton stopped him. ‘You had better remain,’ he said. ‘What Mr Darke has to say will be of great interest to you.’

‘Come, sit down, man,’ cried Darke, indicating a seat next to Stavely.

Casting an apprehensive glance at his mistress, he pulled up a chair.

‘Now, Mr Darke, you have been mysterious, you have been rude and you have been persuasive. Pray tell us what this is all about,’ said Beatrice Wilberforce.

Luther Darke placed his cup and saucer on the tea trolley and stood facing the small group. ‘Murder most foul, as in the best it is. Inspector Thornton here sought my assistance because he was far from convinced that the poor devil languishing in the cells at Scotland Yard was the perpetrator of the crime that was committed here a few evenings ago. After hearing the details of the case, I was certain that debtor Armstrong was innocent. It was all too convenient. Anyone capable of carrying out a clever murder in a locked room would not have been careless enough to leave some blood on his outdoor coat. It was a foolish embellishment, placed there in order to establish a scapegoat. I had my own ideas concerning the method of the murder, but I needed to discover a few further details before I could be certain. Now I am certain.’ He retrieved his cup and drank some tea as his audience absorbed this information. It was a brave act on his part. He abhorred tea, and as a rule it never passed his lips.

‘In the detection of crime, sixth sense and guesswork play a valid part in reaching the right conclusion. On very slender evidence, I guessed or at least sensed that the marriage between Laurence and Beatrice Wilberforce was not a completely happy one.’ He raised his hand to silence Mrs Wilberforce before she could protest.

‘I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but Laurence Wilberforce was a humourless, cold-hearted bully who could turn nasty even towards someone of whom he once thought kindly. His treatment of Richard Armstrong bears witness of that. As does the bruising on your arm. You have been badly used, my dear.’

The woman said nothing, but stared determinedly ahead of her, avoiding Darke’s gaze.

‘The bruising gave some foundation to my surmise. Similarly, Boldwood’s angry reticence when I questioned him concerning the state of the Wilberforce marriage added more grist to my mill. Boldwood revealed himself as a great protector of his mistress. What did you say, Sergeant? Something like: “I would have knocked you down for being so impertinent but it would have upset Mrs Wilberforce.” Words to that effect. A real Sir Galahad. How difficult it must have been for you, Boldwood, to live and serve in a house where the husband treated his wife miserably and on occasion, struck her with some violence. Hard for a man who loved his mistress and wanted to protect her. Here you were, an old military man used to action, used to fighting for what you believed in, but unable to do anything about the injustice going on under your nose. But, oh, there are straws – there are straws, apparently insignificant, puny little straws, which yet have, as the proverb has it, the power to break a camel’s back.

‘On the day of the murder, Wilberforce was in a foul mood. Probably he had seen the guest list and noticed Armstrong’s name. He lost his temper and behaved abominably. The bruises that are now fading from his wife’s arm were, I am sure, administered on that day. For you Boldwood, late of the 101st Bengal Fusiliers, this was your last straw. You conceived a plan to rid your mistress of this troublesome husband. It was a well-wrought plan indeed.’

Boldwood made to rise, but Thornton, who had manoeuvred his way around the back of the butler’s chair, placed both hands on his shoulders and gently pressed him back into his seat.

‘I cannot be sure how accurate I am as to the minutiae but I am sure that my broad strokes paint the true picture. Boldwood bought a bolt from the local ironmongers. We found the bag in which it was wrapped and the receipt stuffed in the drawer in his room. I am sorry, Boldwood, but with Mr Stavely’s connivance we searched your room just now, while he busied you with other chores. Like many murderers before you, you were confident that you would never be suspected or that your room would be searched. We also discovered the screwdriver you used to fix the bolt on the inside of Wilberforce’s study. Then you waited. Waited until your master had dressed for dinner, before you entered his dressing room armed with a knife. You told him, no doubt, what a despicable creature he was. How he was a monster ruining the life of one of the finest women you had known. And he, no doubt, laughed at first…’

‘He did laugh. Until he saw the knife.’ Boldwood uttered these words in monotone, without a trace of emotion showing on his face. ‘And then the coward stopped laughing.’

‘You stabbed him once. That was all that was necessary. And then with the knife still lodged in his stomach, you pushed him into the study. You stood outside the room, uttering curses and threats about how you intended to finish him off. In desperation, he attempted to shut the door on you, and you let him. One can but imagine his surprise and delight to find that the door now possessed a bolt. His disordered brain would not question how it got there. For Wilberforce it was a Godsend. His desperate hands slammed it home, thus trapping himself within his own tomb.’

Boldwood said nothing, but a fevered light illuminated his eyes as, through Darke’s narrative, he relived the moment.

Darke continued: ‘Although badly wounded, Laurence Wilberforce now thought that he was safe. What he didn’t know – what no one knew or suspected – was that the tip of the knife had been tainted with a strong poison which brought about death within five minutes or so. The stain on the carpet suggested to me that Wilberforce’s blood loss was not that great as to bring about his death with such alacrity. He had to be helped on his way. A blade tipped with poison was the most obvious device. No doubt the deadly concoction was one of the prizes that you brought back with you from India, along with the knife. I know of few soldiers who served out there who did not bring back one of those long-handled knives as a rather gruesome reminder of their Indian sojourn. The bazaars were full of them. “A souvenir, sahib?”’

‘Is this all true, Boldwood?’ asked Beatrice Wilberforce, her voice no louder than a harsh whisper.

‘It is all true,’ came the solemn reply.

The woman rose to her feet, her face suddenly flushed with anger. ‘You fool, you damned fool!’ she screamed. ‘Don’t you know that whatever Laurence did to me, I loved him? I loved him with all my heart. He was my husband! And now you have taken him away.’ She made a mad dash for the servant, but Jack Stavely stepped forward and held her back. She sank into his arms, sobbing.

Boldwood looked in horror at his mistress. His features blanched at the sudden realisation that he had been both blind and foolish. He turned sharply, as if to make for the door.

‘Don’t bother with that, Boldwood. You will find there are two constables and my assistant Sergeant Grey waiting outside, ready to take you to the Yard,’ said Edward Thornton, stepping forward and clasping a pair of handcuffs on the man. He had visibly shrunk, and his eyes moistened with tears. ‘I did it for the best, sir. I did it for m’lady.’

At this reference to her Beatrice Wilberforce pulled away from Jack Stavely. ‘Get out of my sight, you devil. I never want to see you again.’

Luther Darke poured himself another large whisky. Thornton clapped his hands over his glass. One large nip was enough for him, but not for his triumphant friend.

‘I need this as an antidote to that tea with which I sullied my throat in Curzon Street,’ he said with solemnity.

The two men were seated around the fire in Darke’s sitting room later that day. Persephone still lay like a wax image, curled in a foetal position, before the grate.

Darke took a gulp from his glass and rolled the liquid around in his mouth before swallowing it slowly, allowing its warmth to burn his throat. He grinned. “‘Gie me ae spark ‘o Nature’s fire, That’s a’ learning I desire,” as Maester Burns has it. Well, Edward, a successful day: the solving of a murder and the release of an innocent man.’

‘Indeed, but it gave me no pleasure to lock up Boldwood. He is a sad creature whose intentions were for the best.’

‘Misplaced affection, passion as it was in Boldwood’s case, can drive a man to behave like the Devil. And it was a devilishly ingenious plan. He knew with the evidence of a stab wound, the pool of blood and the knife, that no one would think of poison as the real cause of death. The locked room was also an added subterfuge to fog the truth. A real November crime, eh? Remember, he was virtually making the rules of his murder plan up as he went along. He was determined to muddy the waters as much as possible. If Boldwood had not tried to be too clever by smearing Armstrong’s coat with blood, he might even have got away with it.’

‘Because then there would have been no definite suspect and nothing to prompt my unease which sent me running to you.’

‘I cannot believe that you came running. With a dignified policeman-like gait, surely.’

Thornton laughed. The whisky was already going to his head. ‘I had better be on my way. There is work still to be done back at the Yard.’

Luther Darke saw Edward Thornton to the door. Thick winter night, with its grey coils of fog, awaited the inspector beyond the threshold.

‘Thank you for your help, Luther. You are an amazing man.’

For a moment, Darke’s face grew serious. ‘We are all amazing men in our own way, my friend. Come again soon.’

With that, the two men shook hands and Thornton walked out into the darkness, which soon swallowed him up. Darke returned to his fireside, his cat and his whisky.

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4

THE RIDDLE OF THE VISITING ANGEL

Who would have thought of it? he mused. Out of science came ethereal mysticism that paved the way to fortune. He smiled a self-satisfied smile. No one would have thought of it – except himself.

Cornelius Horden sat up in bed, clasping a silver-framed photograph of his wife. His eyes misted as he gazed at the faded image, one which had been captured over twenty years before. To Cornelius, who loved his wife with an unstinting passion, she had never changed from the fresh, graceful young woman she had been in that long-lost summer in the late 1870s. He had never perceived her golden hair turning to grey or the smoothness of her skin slacken and give way to wrinkles. For him, her beauty remained intact – remained so until death. While Gwendolyn’s ageing never impinged upon his consciousness, her passing now consumed him. He knew that to commit suicide would be against his own strict personal moral code, and so he found himself enduring a desolate and achingly sad existence. Gently he brought his lips to touch the cold glass of the photograph frame. ‘Oh, Gwen,’ he murmured softly, as the tears began to flow with unabandoned grief. Only his noble sensibilities prevented him from taking his own life.

Moments later, he recovered sufficiently to place the photograph on the bedside table and wipe his eyes with one of his wife’s handkerchiefs. He gave a deep melancholic sigh that seemed to suck the energy from his tired frame.

There came a gentle knock at the bedroom door and a young woman entered. In some ways she was like a younger, harsher image from the photograph, but her hair was dark and worn in a severe style, pulled back from the face. By comparison, her features were pinched and shrewish. She lacked the grace or charm of her mother.

‘I wondered if you’d like a hot drink, Father.’

He shook his head.

She noticed his red eyes and tear stained cheeks. Her glance fell upon the photograph. The old man read his daughter’s mind. ‘I’ve been saying goodnight to your mother. I’m ready to sleep now, Sarah.’

‘Very well, Father.’ She came forward and planted a chaste kiss on his forehead. ‘Shall I pull the curtains? There’s a full moon tonight. I’m sure the light will bother you.’

‘No, no,’ said the old man with an irrational urgency. ‘If I wake, I like to see the world outside … the sky. With the curtains drawn, my world is so … so claustrophobic.’

Sarah said nothing. Since her mother’s death, six months before, her father’s grief had led him into strange ways and he had developed odd little behaviours. It had isolated him from the rest of the family so that now he was almost a stranger to them. It was as though he had deliberately cut himself off from all those who cared for him in order to live in a world of sadness and memories.

‘If there is nothing else, I’ll leave you.’

‘There’s nothing else.’

‘Goodnight, Father.’

‘Goodnight.’

Sarah swished from the room, closing the door noisily.

Cornelius gave a sigh of relief. He was alone again with Gwendolyn. He closed his eyes and soon shallow sleep overtook him. He woke again some twenty minutes later. He was immediately conscious of a soft sound invading the room. He lay in the darkness, listening intently. He thought he heard someone calling his name, softly, persuasively. He sat upright, straining to determine exactly the nature of this sound. Surely it was not a voice. It must be just his imagination? The air was still and quiet … and yet…

He glanced at the photograph on the bedside table, the moonlight highlighting the ghostly faded features of his dead wife. Was the smile more vibrant and were the eyes sunnier? Did the lips appear to move? Cornelius Horden closed his eyes apprehensively.

And then he heard the voice once more – clearly this time. There could be no doubt. It was calling his name, softly but distinctly. The tone was high, but he was not sure whether it was a man or a woman’s voice. He struggled into an upright position and only then allowed himself to open his eyes. What he saw made him catch his breath in such a violent fashion that he thought for a moment that he would faint.

There, against the darkness of the windowpane was a flickering, bright light that gradually formed itself into an image. It was the image of an angel. Or a creature that he recognised as an angel from the illustrations of the scriptures he’d seen as a child. A tall figure with flowing blonde hair, dressed in a long white gown behind which two large dove-like wings were visible. They flapped slowly and noiselessly. The beautiful epicene face of the creature was topped with a shining halo. It was an angel, indeed. One of God’s holy messengers, who had come to him. The angel was smiling, its arms stretched out in a beckoning gesture, beckoning for Cornelius to join him.

The vision warmed the old man’s tired, grieving heart. Instinctively, he sat forward in the bed and reached out, his fingers stretching in the darkness towards the shimmering figure. And then as quickly and as suddenly as the apparition had appeared, it vanished. The blue of the night seeped back to replace it. The room regained its shadows.

Cornelius sat for some time staring at that bleak space, barely moving a muscle. His tired brain tried to rationalise his experience. It couldn’t. He knew he hadn’t been asleep; he hadn’t been dreaming, and he hadn’t imagined it. There was only one lucid explanation left.

He had been visited by an angel.

But why?

‘Have you ever heard of the Church of the True Resurrection?’

‘I have not, but it sounds like so many of the crank religious organisations we encounter in London nowadays, run by the weak-minded for the weak-minded.’

Luther Darke stared at his friend Inspector Edward Thornton with some surprise. ‘How harshly cynical of you. Police work is brutalising your sensitivities.’

‘I am not a religious man, Luther, although I hope I am a moral one in keeping with the Christian tradition. But I have no time for the mumbo-jumbo that some of these so-called holy sects indulge in. They befuddle the minds of the gullible – invariably for profit.’

The two men were seated by the fireside in the sitting room of Darke’s town house in Manchester Square. A pale noonday sun sent frail yellow shafts of light into the otherwise gloomy chamber. Luther Darke liked the gloom.

He took another drink of whisky. ‘Do you know of a fellow by the name of Doctor Sebastien Le Page?’

Thornton screwed his face up in a pantomime of thought.

Darke grinned. ‘Oh, Edward, Edward, you are being singularly useless.’

‘Has Mr Le Page committed a crime?’

‘Doctor, please. Do give the scoundrel his proper title. Committed a crime? Ah, well there is the rub, my dear friend. One cannot be absolutely sure. However, I am fairly certain he is in the process of doing so.’

‘Riddles again, Luther.’

‘Always riddles. Of course. Life would be meaningless without them.’

Thornton slipped his watch from his waistcoat. ‘I have to be at the Yard in an hour, so I would appreciate it if we could deal with practicalities.’

Darke gave a throaty laugh. ‘Ever the professional when the smell of crime is in the air. But I have to say, Edward, that I am disappointed. I’m not sure whether it is with you for never having heard a wrong word against Doctor Charlatan Le Page, or because the aforementioned knave has managed to keep his nefarious dealings out of the purview of Scotland Yard and its eagle-eyed officers.’

‘It is an unusual name. French, I assume. Perhaps we know him under an alias. However, you invited me here for a drink and an intriguing story. Well, I’ve been furnished with a drink.’ He held up a full tumbler of whisky. ‘So now let me have your story, and then maybe I can say more about Doctor Le Page.’

Darke did not reply instantly, but stared at the dancing flames in the grate for some moments before addressing his friend in a quiet and sober manner. ‘Tell me, Edward, do you believe in angels?’

Thornton failed to hide the surprise that this query brought. ‘Angels?’

‘Those celestial and divine messengers – possessors of halos and large white wings. You remember that one of their breed appeared before the shepherds tending their sheep outside Bethlehem the night Jesus Christ was born. Do you believe in them?’

Despite the irreverence of this utterance, Thornton knew that Darke was not jesting. The inspector shook his head. ‘I must admit I have never given it any thought. I think I would need to see one before I could pass judgement.’

With a sigh of satisfaction, Luther Darke leaned back in his chair, both hands cradling his whisky glass. ‘It is possible that could be arranged.’

The policeman looked shocked.

Darke smiled. ‘Let me tell you my story.’

The day following the angel’s visitation, Cornelius Hordern was in a notably more cheerful mood than usual. And this was in spite of the fact that Sarah had pestered him to have stern words with Sadie, the youngest housemaid, whose courting habits were causing her to be out late in the evenings of her days off, with the result that she was sullen and lethargic in the mornings.

‘She is young, my dear. Do not deny the girl her youth,’ he said gently, pulling his chair closer to the fire.

‘We must not indulge these girls, Father. Give them an inch … you know as well as I that I am a supporter of women’s rights. But if women are to be taken seriously, they must respect their responsibilities and not shirk them in favour of a kiss and a cuddle with one of the village lads.’

Cornelius Hordern gazed at his daughter. How unlike her mother she was. Despite a passing resemblance in looks, the brusqueness of her demeanour and the lack of generosity of spirit destroyed any true filial resemblance. ‘I will speak to her,’ said Hordern with resignation.

As it turned out, some hours later Sadie tapped on the old man’s study door and announced that he had a visitor. ‘Johnson has taken Miss Sarah into the village on a shopping expedition, sir, and it’s Clara’s day off. It was left up to me to answer the door, and there’s a gentlemen who says he is here on urgent business.’ The words tumbled out in an excited gasp, her animated face alive with emotion. Cornelius could not help but smile at this lively, natural creature. This was the girl with whom he was meant to remonstrate. Certainly here was no sulleness or lethargy.

He smiled at her. ‘What does this gentleman want, Sadie?’

‘He didn’t say, but said I was to give you his card.’ She thrust an ivory visiting card into her master’s hand.

Cornelius gazed at it. It bore the owner’s name and address in bold black print: ‘Doctor Sebastien Le Page, 13 Plover Mansions, Highgate, London’, and underneath, scrawled in pencil, the word ‘angel’. Cornelius Hordern felt his heart miss a beat.

‘You’d better show the gentleman in,’ he said, at length.

Sebastien Le Page was a short, dapper man, with swarthy features, thinning black hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. Two large eyes peered out at the world through a carefully balanced pince-nez. He strode purposefully into the room and grasped Cornelius Hordern’s hand with a tight, icy grip.

‘I thank you most profusely for seeing me, sir,’ he said easily. The voice held a faint trace of a French accent.

Hordern waved his visitor to a chair but did not reply until Sadie had left the room. ‘I would appreciate it if you could come straight to the point and explain the purpose of your visit.’

Theatrically, Le Page attempted to hide a secret smile. ‘Cards on the table, eh? So sensible, I agree. Very well. I will not prevaricate. The matter is too important to be hindered by formal niceties. Last night you experienced a wondrous event. You were visited by a spiritual messenger.’

Hordern found his mouth going dry and he could hardly summon the words in response. ‘How on earth can you possibly know that?’

A self-satisfied smile lighted upon Le Page’s face. ‘Because it is my business … my calling to know such things. I am high priest of the Church of the True Resurrection.’

Hordern shook his head. ‘That means nothing to me.’

‘Our disciples believe in a life beyond this life: a life of peace and harmony. An existence that allows communication between the two worlds.’

Hordern curled his lip. ‘You mean Spiritualists?’

‘Our movement is a branch of Theosophy, yes, but our faith in the interaction of physical and ethereal agents is greater and more assured.’

‘I don’t wish to be rude, sir, but I have little time or belief…’

Le Page leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Your wife has been speaking to me.’

These words sent involuntary icy shudders through Hordern’s body. He shook his head in disbelief and yet he desired to hear more.

‘She is happy and wishes to communicate with you. That is why the angel came last night, as I knew it would, to bring you to her.’

‘This is outrageous, Doctor Le Page, you are playing with my emotions. My beloved wife is dead and now beyond my reach.’

‘You deny the existence of your eyes?’

‘I saw nothing. I was dreaming.’ The old man shook his head in some distress and ran his bony fingers across his brow. ‘Please, I beg you to go and leave me now. Leave me this instant.’

Le Page did not seem at all perturbed by his curt dismissal. He rose calmly and walked to the door. ‘Should you change your mind, Mr Hordern, you have my card. Good day.’

That night Cornelius Hordern lay awake in his bed, propped up on pillows, staring at the window opposite. He fought against sleep overtaking him. He wished to watch all night to see if the angel came again.

However, as the church clock in the distance chimed two o’clock, he began to lose his battle against drowsiness. His eyelids drooped and he slipped down under the covers into the warmth of the bed. Gradually he grew aware of the irrationality of the situation. What on earth was he doing? This whole business was all nonsense. The explanation was simple: he had dreamed up the angel. His grief had somehow stimulated his imagination and…

Suddenly, he heard his name. A faint, thin voice calling softly on the air. It was repeated three times.

‘Yes,’ he found himself replying to the darkness.

Almost on the instant he spoke, a light filtered into the room. The angel had appeared once more, exactly as it had done the previous night. It was a shimmering image seen through the darkened pane of the window, its arms spread wide in an act of supplication.

‘Sarah!’ Cornelius Hordern yelled. ‘Sarah, for God’s sake, come here!’ He pulled back the covers, stumbled from the bed and called out his daughter’s name again, his eyes never leaving the flickering vision.

Within seconds, Sarah burst into her father’s bedroom, a dressing gown hastily pulled around her thick calico nightgown.

‘What is it, Father?’ she cried. ‘Are you ill?’

‘Look,’ he said, pointing at the window.

Bewildered, the young woman did as her father instructed and then gave a gasp of terror, for she too saw the visiting angel.

And then in an instant the apparition disappeared, vanished into the blackness of the night.

‘Now I am intrigued,’ said Inspector Edward Thornton taking a sip of whisky.

Darke’s face creased into a smile. ‘I thought you might be. When the father and daughter had regained their composure, they gazed out of the window into the garden, but there was no sign of anything unusual. The angel, the celestial visitor, call it what you will, had left no trace. However, now his daughter had seen it, Cornelius Hordern was convinced of its existence.’

Plover Mansions was a smart address and number 13 was the large penthouse apartment at the top of this modern building. A young, tall, dark-haired man wearing a short beard and dressed from head to foot in black showed Cornelius Hordern into Sebastien Le Page’s study.

Le Page looked up from his desk and gave his visitor a self-satisfied smile. ‘Take a seat, Monsieur Hordern. I felt sure that we should meet again. Perhaps not as soon as this, but here you are. And … now you believe.’

Hordern nodded dumbly.

‘Excellent. Now it becomes possible for us to help each other.’

‘Tell me, Luther, how did you get mixed up in this business?’

‘Indirectly – as always. It was Carla who first told me of the affair. She knows Sarah Hordern through a women’s discussion group they both belong to. One night after a meeting, Miss Hordern sought out Carla for advice. My darling Carla, being the kind soul she is, whisked the creature off to her own apartment in Bloomsbury so that she could unburden her soul or whatever was necessary…’

‘My brother is away in America on business and I’ve no one else to turn to for advice. I feel stupid for being so weak but…’ Sarah Hordern’s lip trembled and for a few moments Carla thought she was going to burst into tears.

‘It’s a weakness to bottle things up inside you, Sarah. Tell me everything you wish and I will help if it’s possible.’

‘Thank you. The whole situation is a crazy one. My father is giving away the family fortune to a crank medium. Before long we shan’t have a home to live in.’

‘You realise, Monsieur Hordern, that I do not usually carry out a séance with only one disciple present, but thanks to your extremely generous contribution to the coffers of the Church of the True Resurrection, I am more than happy to make an exception.’

‘It is I who cannot thank you enough.’

‘We are both satisfied then. Well, if you are ready, let us go through to my communication chamber.’

Le Page led his new disciple into a small room off his study. The chamber was lined with black velvet curtains. A round table stood in the centre of the room upon which was placed a single candlestick, the solitary, erratic flame the only source of illumination.

‘Sit on my right,’ said Le Page taking the most ornate chair. ‘Place your hands on the table. It is essential that they remain there throughout the whole course of the séance. Is that understood?’

Cornelius nodded.

‘You must prepare yourself mentally for what is about to happen. It is most likely that your wife will speak to you – in some form – tonight. After all she did send an angel to bring you to me, but you must not be too disappointed if very little happens on this occasion. Just as this is a strange and daunting experience for you, so it will be for your wife. You can only expect to build up trust over a period of time.’

Cornelius was so emotionally strained at this point that he could barely respond with a nod. The thought of being able to communicate with his beloved Gwendolyn again was almost too much for his weary constitution to bear. He sat quietly in a frozen state of anticipation.

Le Page flicked him a quick smile. ‘Very well, let us begin. First of all clear your head of all thoughts except for the image of your wife, Gwendolyn. Fix her face firmly in your mind.’

Hordern did as he was bidden.

Le Page sat back in the chair. He remained still for some moments, breathing deeply with his eyes closed. Then with a sudden movement, he flung his head back as though he were addressing the ceiling and he began talking in a strange strangulated whisper. ‘Listen to our plea, oh silent spirits of the other world. We are believers, longing to reach out through the invisible barrier that separates the flesh from the soul to send our love to you. Let us speak with you, oh spirits. We are your devout believers. Speak to us.’

The candle flame flickered and went out.

There was silence for a moment and then Le Page repeated his plea: ‘Speak to us.’

‘Who is it who calls to us?’ The voice was strange, muffled and indistinct, and, to Hordern’s heightened senses, it seemed to be emanating from the ceiling.

‘We have a sad earthbound soul here who wishes to speak to a loved one who has passed through the veil. Our friend is Cornelius Hordern.’

The strange voice came again. ‘What is it he wishes to ask?’

‘Speak. Ask,’ prompted Le Page, squeezing Hordern’s arm.

For some time, Cornelius Hordern could not utter a word. Now he had arrived at this longed-for moment, his brain was not able to function. The fear of disappointment was crippling his faculties.

‘You must speak. She will not respond to me,’ said Le Page in an urgent whisper.

With trembling tones, Hordern addressed the darkness. ‘Gwendolyn, my darling, are you there?’

There was a moment’s pause and then a rustling sound came to his ears. ‘Gwendolyn,’ he asked with greater urgency. And then he froze, for on the air he smelt the faint traces of perfume wafting around him. It was his wife’s favourite fragrance. As his racing brain was trying to assimilate this sensation, there came another voice.

‘Darling, darling Cornelius.’

It was Gwendolyn. It must be.

‘My dear,’ Hordern sobbed, his hands momentarily raised from the surface of the table as though he was going to reach out and embrace his dead wife.

‘Oh, Cornelius, do not fear. I am happy, my darling, and I will wait for you.’

‘Can’t … can’t I see you?’

‘Come again,’ replied the voice as it trailed away to silence.

‘Gwendolyn!’ Hordern cried, tears now falling down his cheeks.

But there was no reply.

‘You have been lucky, my dear sir. Very lucky indeed.’ It was Le Page who was talking, in his normal voice. ‘That was a remarkable contact for the first time. Remarkable.’

In the darkness Cornelius Hordern sought out the medium’s hands and wrung them with gratitude. ‘It was a miracle. My darling Gwen so near. How can I ever repay you?’

‘Since that first séance, there have been three more. Each time, my father has made huge donations to this so-called Church of the True Resurrection. He cannot see that this Le Page is a charlatan.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Carla, in all seriousness.

Sarah Hordern looked shocked. ‘I have no doubt in my own mind.’

‘Despite the fact that you witnessed the visiting angel?’

‘Well, it is true that I cannot explain what I saw, but I am convinced that my father is being tricked in the most treacherous fashion.’

‘I think you should meet a friend of mine. He is very good at explaining the inexplicable.’

Luther Darke listened to the whole story without interruption. He sat with his eyes closed, stroking his cat, Persephone, who lay upon his lap. When Sarah Hordern had finished her narrative, he sat thoughtfully for a moment and then suddenly jumped from his chair, an action that sent the slumbering cat spinning into the air. With muttered apologies to Persephone as she landed in an undignified fashion on the rug by the fire, Darke rushed to the bookcase.

‘Just let me check something out, Miss Hordern, and then I will attend to your little problem,’ he said, poring over one of his own commonplace volumes. ‘Ah, here we have it. I thought the name was lodged somewhere in the great cluttered attic of this brain of mine. What detritus I do collect there.’

With a satisfied grin, he returned to his seat.

‘What name do you mean? Sebastian Le Page? Do you know him?’

Darke waved his hand casually. ‘Not personally. We shall come to that later. First of all, let me deal with the séances. From what you have told me these are simple, amateur affairs. Your father has never actually seen your mother at one of these shows?’

Sarah Hordern shook her head. ‘According to what he told me, the nearest he came to that was a shadowy female figure wearing a dress similar to the type my mother wore.’

‘Well, all these little tricks can be accounted for quite easily. Dim lighting in a dark room with drapes on the walls allows for a number of accomplices to create numerous tricks. The perfume that your mother wore, for example, would be sprayed near your father at the appropriate moment. A muffled female voice which says little and yet professes to be your mother can be most convincing in such circumstances, especially when your father wants to believe it is her in the first place. So, we can eliminate any special magic in the séances. It is the angel that is the masterstroke. It is the appearance of this celestial visitor that has fully convinced your father that such supernatural shenanigans are possible; and thus gives credence to these medium shows. Therefore, it is this winged messenger that is to be the focus of our investigation.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘First I should like to come down to your house and scrutinise the scene of the visitation. I would need a couple of hours for such an investigation when your father was not there. Is that possible?’

‘He comes up to town every Friday to lunch with an old friend and play billiards at his club. He leaves on the ten o’clock train and returns at six.’

‘Excellent. Would a visit this Friday be acceptable to you?’

‘And so, my dear Inspector Thornton, I thought you would like to accompany me on my little investigation down at the Hordern residence. It is situated near Leatherhead.’

‘How can I resist? You have made the whole affair sound quite intriguing.’

‘Well, I suspect it will be instructional. Along the way we should learn how to create an angel.’

The Hordern house, a three-storey mock Gothic pile built in the 1840s, was situated some three miles from Leatherhead. The two friends engaged the services of a dogcart to deliver them to the doorstep. As this vehicle rattled up the driveway, Edward Thornton put a question to Luther Darke, one which he had been on the verge of asking ever since he first had been told of this affair. He had assumed – wrongly – that Darke would provide the answer without being prompted. Thornton now saw that this wasn’t to be the case.

‘Tell me,’ he said as casually as he could, ‘what is there about the name Sebastien Le Page? You have heard it before?’

Darke grinned. ‘What patience you have. I have been waiting hours, days for you to question me on that. Your restraint is admirable. Yes, I have heard it before. In a completely different context.’

Thornton waited a moment, but Darke was playing games and said nothing.

‘What context?’

‘Do you remember – it was in the summer of 1896 – the stir the Lumière brothers made in London with their cinematography exhibition?’

Thornton shook his head. ‘I do not recall it.’

‘It was a wonderful show. I went twice. It was so entertaining to watch the audience grow nervous during the showing of ‘L’Arrivée d’un Train’. They really believed that a locomotive was steaming towards them in the little theatre.’

‘What has this to do with Sebastien Le Page?’

‘I still have the programme from the event. For some reason the name of the projectionist lodged in a corner of my mind. It was Sebastien Le Page.’

On arriving at the house, Darke asked to see Cornelius Hordern’s bedroom. He was not surprised to learn that it was on the ground floor.

‘This is not a new arrangement; my parents have always slept down here. I think it may have been as a result of their stay in India when they lived in a bungalow. Since my mother died, I moved into the room next door to be near my father in the night if he needed me.’

‘As he did the other evening when you too were able to witness the angel,’ observed Thornton.

The young woman nodded.

To Thornton’s surprise, his friend’s examination of the room seemed cursory and brief. ‘Only one item of interest there,’ Darke whispered as they left the room. ‘The speaking tube.’

Leaving Sarah Hordern in the house to arrange refreshments, the two men then investigated the grounds, and in particular, the area outside Cornelius Hordern’s bedroom. Close to the shrubbery, about twenty yards from the bedroom window, Thornton discovered some marks in the wet earth.

‘Good man,’ cried Luther Darke, bending down to examine them. ‘Two sets of footprints – one fellow wearing heavily ribbed boots. And look here: three round indentations, each about two feet apart in a triangular arrangement.’ Suddenly he burst out laughing. ‘That clinches it, my dear Edward. We have caught our angel.’

‘Before we leave,’ said Darke some twenty minutes later as he and Thornton sat with Sarah Hordern in the drawing room, ‘I should very much like to have a word with your flirtatious maid, Sadie.’

Miss Hordern looked surprised. ‘If you wish. But I don’t quite…’

‘It’s just to settle a few points in my mind.’

‘Very well, I’ll send for her now.’

‘And, Miss Hordern, I think it would be best if we saw her alone.’

‘If that is what you wish.’ A certain frostiness had crept into the woman’s voice now.

‘She will feel more at ease if her employer is not standing in the background, and therefore it will be easier for us to get at the truth,’ explained Thornton.

The maid arrived promptly and, with some reluctance, her mistress left her with the two investigators.

Darke smiled at the pretty young girl. ‘First of all, Sadie, you are not in trouble, and anything you say to me will not be repeated to your master or your mistress. It is just that my friend and I are trying to clear up a little mystery that is puzzling Miss Sarah, and I think you can help us.’

‘Help you? I don’t know anything.’

‘Now, how can you be sure of that until I’ve asked you a few questions? Eh?’

The girl looked sullenly to the floor. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Now then, it is true to say that in the past Miss Sarah has reprimanded you for lateness in the morning…’

‘Not recently, sir.’

‘Good. No more suitors, then?’

‘Well…’

‘Something a little more permanent, I see by the silver ring on your hand.’

Instinctively, the girl covered up the ring with her right hand. ‘It’s just a present.’

‘From whom?’

‘From a friend.’

‘From your young man?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Not a local lad, is he?’

Again the maid hesitated.

‘Come, come, Sadie, the truth will out.’

‘No, he’s not local. He’s better than the layabouts and ruffians that live round here.’

‘He must be. That ring is quite fine.’

‘He’s a good man, sir, and … I love him.’

‘Tall, thin, dark-haired with a short beard?’

‘You know him?’

‘That will be all now, Sadie. You may return to your duties.’

After the maid had left, Darke shook his head sadly. ‘What is it the bard says in Macbeth? “but in this house I keep a servant fee’d.” Ah, well. Time to return to London, Edward. On the train, we shall plan our campaign of action and discuss two letters that we must write.’

Dear Cornelius,

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I have to leave London for a week on pressing business, and therefore I shall have to cancel our Wednesday appointment. I know how upset this will make you feel, but I assure you my trip is essential. However I shall be back in London on the twenty-first of this month and hope to see you on that date.

Yours sincerely,

Sebastien

Dear Dr Le Page,

I have decided to cease my connection with The Church of the True Resurrection. My recent experiences have been most unsatisfactory and I now begin to wonder if the divine intervention, which I witnessed at the start of our association, was in fact an illusion – a dream perhaps.

Therefore I shall be making no further contributions to the funds of your organisation. In order to help me overcome my recent disappointments, I intend to take a protracted trip abroad and I leave in two days’ time on the fourteenth of this month.

Yours sincerely,

Cornelius Hordern

It was past midnight and Cornelius Hordern was still awake. Despite the lateness of the hour, he did not feel drowsy at all. He was sitting up in bed, waiting for the night to pass. The sudden cancellation of his weekly séance at Le Page’s apartment had upset him terribly. He had come to live for those few sweet moments when, albeit in an insubstantial fashion, he was reunited with Gwendolyn. The snatches of speech, the breath of her perfume, were wondrous to him. He hadn’t quite realised how much he had come to depend upon the séances until this cancellation. There would be next week, of course, but that was six long agonising days away.

He sighed heavily and stared out at the blue blankness of the night sky. There was at least one comforting aspect of this affair: his gradual realisation that he had misjudged his daughter. In the last few weeks, as his own pain had lessened, he had begun to view Sarah in a different light. He could see now that in her own way she cared for him very deeply, and it was unfair of him to compare the girl to her mother. Both were unique and of a different time. For him no one could match Gwendolyn’s sweetness and beauty, but now he saw that Sarah had her own individual fire. She was a good daughter, and what she lacked in warmth, she made up for in decency and care. He resolved to be kinder to her in the future. This resolution eased his mind a little. Perhaps he should now try to get some sleep.

Just as he was about to slip down under the covers, a sound came to his ears. It was the sound that he had heard before. His name was called, softly, wistfully in the gloom of the bedroom. It came again: louder, more insistent, demanding a response. It resonated in his tired brain.

‘Yes, I am here,’ he said. ‘I am here.’

As though this utterance was a cue, no sooner had he replied to the disembodied voice than a light shone into the bedroom through the window. Caught in the dancing ray was the figure of an angel. It appeared exactly as it had done before; even the actions of supplication were identical.

Why had it come again? What was the purpose of its visitation this time? Confused and distressed, Cornelius Hordern called out to his daughter. With remarkable alacrity, the girl came into the room and rushed to his side.

‘It’s the angel,’ he muttered, shaking his head in confusion. ‘Why has it come again?’

‘Don’t worry, Father. There’s nothing to be concerned about now.’ As she spoke, the image of the angel wavered and slid upwards towards the ceiling of the room before disappearing altogether. Without a word, Sarah Hordern led her father to the window. They looked out into the moonlit garden beyond, where they heard voices raised in anger. Dimly, they saw a group of men, one of whom appeared to be a uniformed policeman.

Sarah gasped with delight. ‘They’ve captured your angel,’ she said.

One of the men turned his face towards them. It was white and contorted in anger. It belonged to Doctor Sebastien Le Page.

Dawn was breaking and pink light was seeping into the sky when Cornelius Hordern, now dressed in his day clothes, and his daughter sat together in the drawing room with two men.

‘It’s time I introduced you to Mr Luther Darke and Inspector Edward Thornton,’ she announced, passing her father a cup of hot tea. She and Thornton also had cups of the reviving brew but, as usual, Darke had requested free rein with the brandy decanter.

Hordern looked pale and bewildered. ‘I wish you would tell me exactly what has been going on, Sarah. What was Doctor Le Page doing here? I thought he was out of the country. And why are the police involved?’

‘You must forgive me, father, for going behind your back as I did, but I acted for your own good. I felt in my heart that this angel business was all wrong. It was just instinct, I know, but I just knew that something was not quite right. And when you started giving your fortune away to Le Page…’ The girl began to cry.

‘But, Sarah, you were looking for rationalities in the world of the spiritual. Doctor Le Page is…’

‘A fraud, sir,’ said Darke finishing his sentence. ‘In some state of distress, your daughter asked me to investigate Le Page and “this angel business”. I suspect that if I had told her that the good old Doctor was Moses reborn and that he had a cupboard full of the heavenly host, she would have accepted the situation and been pleased for you. She just wanted things to be right and proper for her father, and an independent investigation would present the truth – or as near the truth as we ever get to in this life.’

‘I see,’ said Hordern quietly. ‘And what is the truth?’

‘The truth is that Sebastien Le Page is running the most genteel of extortion rackets. He discovers rich widows or widowers, and then arranges for the angel to pay a nightly visit. This is followed up with a personal call from the man himself. As he did with you.’

‘As he did with me,’ repeated Hordern dully. ‘But what about the angel?’

‘I’ll come to that later, sir. First, let me run through the extortion process. I suspect your reaction to Le Page’s first visit was a fairly standard one. Le Page would be used to and prepared for the initial rejection. But another nightly vision and the bereaved victim is hooked, convinced that the angel brings greetings from beyond the grave. That was the really clever part of the scheme. If you believe that a heavenly visitor is prompting this spiritual communion, you are more likely to accept the various fairground theatricals that follow. There are numerous fake mediums in London, but none with such prestigious credentials as one with an angel on his side.’

‘You mean all those séances were … were false. I didn’t communicate with my dear wife?’ The old man’s voice trembled with emotion as he sought confirmation from his daughter.

She shook her head.

‘Everything you experienced in the dark during those sessions can be explained away as a trick.’ It was Edward Thornton who spoke now. ‘There would be an accomplice, maybe more than one, in the room with you. They would be dressed in black from head to foot so you could not see them. In this way candles can be blown out, perfume sprayed in the air, material rustled as though a woman is present and even a vague shape may be glimpsed. Any female voice in such a situation could be easily accepted as the one that your heart desires it to be.’

Hordern, his eyes now moist with tears, ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve been a fool. A gullible old fool.’

‘You have been a victim, Mr Hordern. One of many, I am sorry to say. Once you were ensnared, then Le Page could ask you for money, large amounts of money, and you were grateful to pass it over to him. As Luther observed, it is the most genteel form of blackmail.’

‘But how did Le Page manage the angel illusion?’

‘Aha,’ said Luther rubbing his hands, ‘that is where our Mr Le Page – the Doctor qualification is also false – was exceedingly clever. He was at one time principal projectionist to the Lumière brothers in their cinematography show – moving pictures. No doubt while working with them he had the idea for the angel illusion. You photograph an actor who is dressed as an angel against a black background with a moving picture camera. All you need is about ninety seconds of film. And then you project the film against a window at night, using it as a transparent screen. The image can be seen on the other side, as though the angel is real and suspended in mid-air.’

‘This is incredible,’ said Cornelius Hordern shaking his head in wonder.

‘Ingenious, I would say, but not incredible. In fact, sir, it is far more credible than the alternative. The inspector and I found signs in the grounds near your bedroom window where the tripod supporting the projector had rested for the celestial film show. As for the voice in your bedroom calling your name, you need look no further than your maid, Sadie. I am afraid she was seduced into assisting in this charade by one of Le Page’s handsome accomplices. No doubt he promised wealth and marriage and, silly little girl that she is, she fell in with their plans. She used the speaking tube in your bedroom as a means of creating the disembodied voice. On the night of the visitation, she would ensure that the stopper on the tube in your room was removed and at the appointed time she would call your name through the tube from the kitchen. It was an essential part of the plan. The projectionist had to be sure you were awake before he began to run the film. No doubt it was Sadie who took some of your wife’s perfume for Le Page to use.’

‘The iniquitous girl!’ cried Hordern.

‘Do not be too hard on her. What she did, she did for love or affection and we all know what fools that powerful emotion can make of us.’

Hordern’s face broke into a wry grin. ‘How right you are, Mr Darke.’ He leaned forward and held his arms out to his daughter. She slipped easily into his embrace. ‘I think that my acquaintance with the angels has done me the world of good. I have learned that while I have breath in my body, I should care for the living. I will be patient about the rest.’ Father and daughter hugged each other in silent joy.

‘Time we were on our way, Edward,’ said Darke with a smile, pulling the policeman towards the door. ‘If we hurry, we can catch the first train to town and indulge ourselves in the dining car.’

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7

THE ILLUSION OF THE DISAPPEARING MAN

It had to be tonight. He had planned it down to the last detail. There was no reason for a delay and, in fact, in order to survive it was imperative that he act now. He just hoped that his nerves held. Working the scheme out meticulously in an abstract form was one thing, but putting it into action was another. He was entering fresh territory now. He had never killed anyone before.

‘I don’t understand your fascination with this so-called magician, Merlin the Magnificent, and why you have to drag me off to the theatre to see him.’ Carla sat back in the cab and shook her head in mild disapproval.

Luther Darke, who was sitting opposite her, leaned forward and gave her a gentle kiss on the lips. ‘Because, my sweet, I know you will be thrilled and fascinated by the fellow. And he is not a magician. He is an illusionist. There is a great difference.’

‘And what, pray, is the difference?’

‘Well, magic is mysterious and inexplicable. There are suggestions of the supernatural about the concept of ‘magic’ – the black arts and its accoutrements. An illusionist can easily explain all he does. They’re tricks, you see. Innocent bits of business to fool the eyes. The illusionist is in essence doing something quite ordinary, quite practical and workmanlike, but because you don’t know what he’s doing and how it’s done – making a dove appear from out of thin air for instance – you are amazed. But you are only amazed because you are ignorant of the mechanics of the deception. If you did know how it was carried out, you wouldn’t think it was very special at all. So you see, it’s a far cry from magic; it’s more … scientific. When you turn the tap on and water gushes out, you don’t say, “Ooh, that’s magic,” because you know about the plumbing and pipes and so on. But some natives in darkest Africa would think of it as magic. It’s the illusionist’s job to disguise the inner workings of the illusion.’

‘You seem to know a great deal about the practice.’

Darke beamed. ‘It’s one of my interests. You know how the unusual and inexplicable fascinate me.’

Carla returned his smile. ‘Yes, I do.’

The Golder’s Green Hippodrome was full that evening, but Luther had managed to secure a box for the two of them. Within minutes of taking their seats, the orchestra struck up with a rousing overture. The first half of the variety show featured fairly mundane run-of-the-mill entertainment: jugglers, a couple of singers who duetted in the most strangulated fashion, a droll comedian in a very loud suit and a troupe of performing dogs. By the interval Carla was decidedly bored, and so Darke whisked her off to the bar, where he plied her with champagne to keep her spirits from flagging. They had just returned to their box when the lights began to dim for the commencement of the second half of the show.

‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment,’ said Darke as Carla settled down in her seat. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’ Before she could respond, he had slipped through the door and was gone. Carla was used to Darke’s odd behaviour but this seemed very strange indeed. Why on earth should he choose to disappear at this moment minutes before Merlin the Magnificent was due to make his entrance? He was the reason they had come to the show in the first place. Carla gave a gentle shrug, sat back in her seat and turned her attention to the stage. The small orchestra had just finished wading through the turgid overture heralding the second half of the performance. There was a small ripple of applause and then the curtain rose. To Carla’s dismay, the two singers from the first half, a very mature husband and wife duo, reappeared to regale the audience with more of their unattractive warbling. In the first half, Darke had observed that they looked as though they had escaped from some embalming room in a nearby hospital. Carla could not help but agree with him.

After three rather painful renditions of what they referred to as ‘popular ballads’ – a definition Carla did not recognise – they took their final bow. Carla found herself giving an audible sigh of relief as they wandered into the wings. It was only then that she realised that Luther had not returned. She wouldn’t put it past him to have sought refuge in the bar to avoid this tortuous mangling of the supposedly ‘popular ballads’.

The master of ceremonies now took to the stage to introduce the top of the bill, the main attraction.

‘We are pleased, proud, privileged and puffing out our chests to have secured the services for one week only of one of the greatest illusionists in the known world,’ he bellowed with manufactured theatrical pride. ‘These will be his only appearances in this country.’

This brought an enthusiastic response from the audience.

‘He will baffle you. He will astound you. He will amaze you. And he will confound you.’

More enthusiastic response.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, all the way from the mystic East, I give you Merlin the Magnificent!’

There was a dramatic roll of drums and a crash of cymbals as two stagehands manoeuvred an enormous silver ball on to the centre of the stage. Carla, surprised at the non-appearance of her companion, nevertheless leaned forward in her seat in order to get a better view of the proceedings. If Luther was going to miss the performance, she was going to savour all this fellow’s illusions.

Now a hush had fallen over the audience as the lights dimmed, the silver ball glimmering ghostlike in the gloom. Suddenly there was a burst of flame and the ball seemed to explode. There was another crash of cymbals and the lights came up. The ball had indeed disappeared and in its place stood a tall, good-looking man with dark skin, dressed in an immaculate evening suit. His handsome face beamed out at the audience beneath a luxurious white silk turban. This was Merlin the Magnificent.

Carla stared intently at this charismatic figure and her mouth opened in an expression of shock and amazement, which quickly transmuted itself into one of great amusement. The figure on the stage, his face caked in dark greasepaint to give it an oriental complexion and sporting a thin moustache, was none other than Luther Darke. So, she thought, that’s why he had been so eager for her to accompany him to the theatre that evening. He had wanted her to see him perform his tricks in front of a full house. She had seen him execute some sleight of hand magic business with cards and small objects at various soirées they had attended, but she had no idea that he had been working on anything as dramatic or spectacular as a stage act.

Merlin bowed to the audience in acknowledgement of their enthusiastic applause and as he did so, two birds seemed to fly out from each sleeve of his jacket. They circled his head and with amazing swiftness he snatched them from the air, appeared to squash the creatures in his grasp and then threw them back into the air. What left his hands this time was a brightly coloured parrot which fluttered up into the flies. The audience roared their approval. Already Carla was mesmerised.

The act continued with an array of amazing illusions. At the climax of the performance, two volunteers were enlisted from the audience to help. Merlin was handcuffed and the volunteers checked carefully that they were indeed locked tightly. Then Merlin was placed inside a large canvas bag, which was secured with an iron chain. Further checks were made on the lock by the volunteers before they returned to their seats. The lights were lowered as the stagehands doused the canvas bag in petrol. The smile disappeared from Carla’s face. This was dangerous. She knew that Luther gained great satisfaction from taking personal risks but this was perhaps going too far. She wanted to stand up and yell from the box, to tell them to stop but it was too late.

There was absolute silence in the audience as one of the stage attendants lit a torch and applied it to the canvas bag. With a great whoosh, it flared into a bright yellow flame. There were screams from the onlookers, who stared in horror, believing that they were witnessing Merlin’s certain demise. Carla bit her knuckles, stifling a cry of anguish. No one, it seemed, could survive that fierce conflagration.

When the flames died away, an awful hush descended over the theatre again. By now Carla was on her feet gazing down at the smouldering remains of the sack, her heart sick with fear and despair.

And then she heard the familiar tones of Luther’s throaty laugh. With a cry of elation, Merlin the Magnificent suddenly appeared, caught in the spotlight high up in the flies above the stage. With a cheery wave he swung down on a silver rope to land exactly where the remains of the bag were still smouldering. Carla sank back in her chair, her eyes moistening with relief as her lips formed the silent words, ‘You bastard.’ The audience were on their feet and the applause was deafening. Merlin took his bows graciously and then waved farewell before stepping backwards into the darkness at the rear of the stage, disappearing from sight altogether.

Carla was exhausted, elated, mystified and completely entranced by the whole experience. She had never seen anything like it before. It truly was magical.

Some ten minutes later, she was backstage searching for Merlin’s dressing room. The stage door keeper was less than helpful. ‘What d’you want wiv ‘im, miss?’ asked the old timer grumpily.

‘I’m a friend,’ she said and then added tartly, ‘Well, I was.’

The stage door keeper ignored the comment. ‘You’ll find him down there, in room six,’ he said, waving his arm in a vague direction before returning to his paper and glass of ale.

Carla wandered off, squeezing past the crush of backstage visitors and performers. At last she came upon the dressing room with the large number six painted upon the door. Without knocking, she entered.

Luther Darke was standing by the mirror, stripped to the waist, wiping the dark brown greasepaint from his face.

At first he was nonplussed to see Carla. He had expected her to wait for him in the foyer. However, he soon recovered his equilibrium and his face split into a broad grin. ‘My darling…’ he said warmly.

‘Don’t you darling me,’ she responded frostily, stepping back from his advance. ‘How could you do this to me?’

His features darkened. ‘Do what?’

‘Trick me in this way. Make believe I was going to see a famous magician and … and it was you all the time. And then you set fire to yourself on stage. You could have killed yourself.’

Darke shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, my sweet, I never was in any danger. You don’t think I am so irresponsible that I would put my own life at risk?’

‘Yes, I do. I saw you climb into that bag and it being set alight.’

‘Illusion. You saw what I wanted you to see. It was a trick.’

Carla looked mystified. ‘How?’

‘Simple. The sack had a secret opening which allowed me to slip through a trap door in the stage. As I did so, I slipped a rag dummy into my place in the sack. I then made my way under the stage to the wings and thus up into the flies while you and the rest of the audience gazed in wonder and horror as the rag dummy was consumed by flames. So you see, my darling, I was never in any danger.’

Carla slapped Darke’s shoulder hard. ‘But I didn’t know that. I thought that…’

He moved forward, took her in his arms and kissed her.

‘I didn’t realise that you’d be so concerned. I just wanted to surprise you, that’s all. Do you forgive me?’

Carla could not help but smile. ‘I suppose so,’ she said warmly.

‘Good. Well let me make it up to you by treating you to supper. There’s quite a pleasant little place called Leonardo’s just around the corner from the theatre. Let me get this stuff off my face and take you there.’

Carla discovered that Leonardo’s was not just ‘a pleasant little place’ but was in fact an impressive and expensive Italian restaurant. They were greeted warmly by the head waiter, who obviously knew Luther Darke as a regular customer.

The dining room was very busy, but a table had been reserved for them at the far end by the window. Darke ordered a bottle of claret before settling in his seat. ‘I’ve hardly had a drink all night,’ he explained.

‘So, are you abandoning your career as a painter for a life upon the stage, Mr Merlin?’ asked Carla tartly as she surveyed the menu casually.

Darke chuckled at the thought. ‘I think not, my sweet. This is my first and last week as a stage illusionist. I just wanted to see if I could do it. It was a challenge. As you know, I have always been fascinated by the thin line that exists between illusion and reality, by what we think we see and what we really see. It’s been very useful in my detective work. I was just putting some of my theories to the test. And now the experiment is over. Of course, I will honour my contract with the theatre but on Saturday night, Merlin the Magnificent will pack away his equipment and his silk turban and like one of his doves, disappear from the scene.’

Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden commotion in the restaurant. A newly arrived customer was shouting angrily at the waiter. He was a short, red-faced man with thick-set features and an arrogant gait. ‘Don’t contradict me!’ he boomed, waving his arms wildly. ‘I booked a table two days ago, damn you!’ Many diners, disturbed by the noisy outburst, turned to watch this extraordinary demonstration.

The little Italian waiter cowered away from him. ‘Apologies, sir. I will arrange a table for you immediately.’

‘I should think so,’ came the loud, ungracious response.

‘Charming fellow,’ said Carla.

‘I know the chap,’ said Darke quietly, leaning forward. ‘Well, at least I know his face. It is familiar to me…’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Ah, yes. It’s Charles Stone, the property developer.’

‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Carla, wrinkling her nose. ‘He doesn’t seem a particularly nice individual.’

Darke raised an eyebrow. ‘Name me a property developer who is?’

A waiter brought the wine. Darke declared it excellent and downed a full glass before the waiter had time to pour any for Carla. They made their choices from the menu and soon forgot about the obstreperous customer and his manic behaviour for the moment, but towards the end of the meal Charles Stone’s strident voice was heard again. This time he appeared to be complaining about his food and demanding to see the manager. The waiter scurried away from his table and Stone rose from the table, scraped his chair noisily on the floor and strode towards the gentlemen’s lavatories.

‘It must take a lot of energy and self-sufficiency to be as objectionable as that all the time,’ observed Darke.

Carla nodded. She was feeling tired and the wine had gone to her head. She glanced at her watch: it was half past eleven. ‘Heavens,’ she cried, ‘I didn’t know that it was so late.’

‘I’ll order coffee and then I’ll take you home.’

‘Thank you. It has been a long evening, and not one without a surprise or two.’

Darke caught the waiter’s eye and requested coffee for two, a large cognac for himself and the bill.

Twenty minutes later, Luther Darke and Carla were retrieving their coats from the foyer. As they did so, Charles Stone barged through in front of them, grabbing his own hat and overcoat before stomping out of the restaurant.

‘Manners maketh the man,’ observed Darke softly, as he helped Carla with her coat.

Once outside, they both pulled their collars about their faces. The night had turned chilly. A pale crescent moon and a smattering of stars decorated the clear, cloudless sky. Across the city they could hear Big Ben chiming midnight. Then suddenly other sounds intruded upon the night: strident, desperate calls for help, followed by a terrified scream. Glancing up the hill in the direction of the cries, they saw two figures silhouetted against the feeble rays of a gas lamp. They appeared to be grappling with each other in a violent struggle. The figures were just beyond the sphere of light and it was difficult to see clearly, but one of them, a man, was shouting in desperation, ‘Help! Murder! For God’s sake, help!’

‘You wait here,’ said Darke, making off up the hill at great speed.

‘Certainly not,’ snapped Carla, following on his heels.

As they grew nearer, the figures disappeared out of sight around a bend in the road. There followed a loud guttural scream and then silence.

When Darke turned the corner he came upon a body stretched out on the pavement. He knelt down and saw that it was Charles Stone, the obnoxious diner. He was alive and breathing heavily, his face bathed in sweat and grime. He gazed up at Darke, his eyes wild with fear. ‘I’ve been attacked,’ he panted hoarsely. ‘Did he get away?’

Darke glanced around him. Apart from Carla, there was no one else in view. The street was empty and silent.

Carla knelt beside Darke and helped cradle Stone’s head in her hands. ‘Are you hurt?’ she asked.

‘I… I don’t think so. Not badly, anyway. Just … shocked … he wanted my wallet. He had a knife. My God, it was awful.’

‘Well, you’re safe now,’ said Carla.

‘Thank you.’

‘Do you think you can stand up?’ Darke took hold of Stone’s arm.

‘Yes, I think so.’ Slowly, they raised the man to his feet. There were no traces of swagger and bounce in Charles Stone’s demeanour now: he was shaken and afraid. ‘Thank heavens there was someone around. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t come to my rescue.’

‘Where did he go, this fellow?’ asked Darke, glancing around the empty thoroughfare. ‘Did he slip down this alleyway here?’

‘No, no. He ran off up the street, away from you.’

‘You seem very sure.’

‘Very sure.’

‘Perhaps you should see a doctor,’ suggested Carla.

‘No, no. I’ll be fine. I just need a brandy to calm me down. If you two kind people will see me home. I only live less than five minutes’ walk away … I don’t feel safe enough to go on my own.’

‘Of course,’ said Carla.

‘Thank you, and then I can reward you for your endeavours.’

‘Naturally, we’ll see you home,’ said Darke. ‘But no rewards are required.’

Carla nodded.

‘Oh, I shall insist,’ Stone smiled. ‘This way, then.’

While making their way slowly up the hill, Stone introduced himself and explained that he’d just been for a quiet meal at Leonardo’s restaurant. At the mention of the phrase ‘quiet meal’, Darke and Carla exchanged amused glances.

As predicted, in less than five minutes they had arrived at Stone’s impressive town house where more surprises were in store for them. The street door was ajar, and light from the hallway spilled out on to the stone pathway.

‘I don’t understand…’ Stone exclaimed as he approached the house. ‘I locked the door myself when I came out this evening. It is the servants’ night off, you see. My wife has a heavy cold and she retired to bed early. That’s why I went to Leonardo’s alone.’

‘We saw you in there,’ Darke admitted.

‘Ah, did you,’ replied Stone distractedly. He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘So why is the door open now…?’

On entering the house it was clear that there had been an intruder. Vases had been knocked over, chairs turned on their sides, and drawers opened and their contents tipped on to the floor.

Stone ran to the bottom of the staircase. ‘Marjorie!’ he cried out. ‘Marjorie!’

There was no reply. With Darke and Carla close behind, he ran up the stairs and into the first bedroom on the landing. The sight that met their eyes stopped all three in their tracks. Lying sprawled across the bed in a blue nightgown was the body of a middle-aged woman. A knife had been plunged deep into her breast and the blood was still seeping on to the bedclothes. Although it seemed likely that she was dead, Darke took hold of her hand and felt for a pulse. There was none, although her flesh was quite warm. It was clear that she had not been dead very long. Stone gave a long moan of anguish and crumpled to the floor, sobbing hysterically.

Carla turned to Darke. ‘I saw a telephone downstairs. I’d better ring for the police. You keep an eye on Mr Stone, but don’t let him touch anything.’

‘Call Edward. Let’s have someone we know on the case,’ said Darke, extracting a visiting card from his pocket and handing it to her. ‘His telephone number is on there. He will most likely be at home in bed, but he won’t mind being disturbed…’

Carla gave him a wry smile. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ she said as she left the room.

With only a small degree of reluctance, Edward Thornton agreed to come along to investigate the matter. While they waited for his arrival, Carla took Stone away from the murder scene to the drawing room downstairs, where he consumed two large glasses of brandy. The alcohol, along with the shock of discovering his murdered wife, seemed to send him into a kind of trance. He sat in a high-backed armchair, rocking backwards and forwards, staring at the floor and sighing.

Thirty minutes later Inspector Edward Thornton arrived, unshaven and somewhat bleary-eyed. He had Sergeant Grey with him, who had similarly been prised from his bed for the occasion. ‘You pick your moments, Luther,’ said Thornton, gazing down at the dead woman.

‘I thought you’d be interested. I know you’ve been rather quiet of late. So here I am, presenting you with a nice juicy murder.’

‘Tell me all about it.’

Darke took a large swig from his whisky flask and then told Thornton of all that had happened that evening after he and Carla had gone to Leonardo’s, including details of Stone’s strange behaviour in the Italian restaurant and the murderous assault that had taken place on the hill not far from the property developer’s house.

Thornton stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s a funny one, all right,’ he said, gazing around the bedroom. ‘It looks as though the intruder murdered the woman first before ransacking the place, which is not the normal course of events in a burglary. There’s no disturbance upstairs, so the chap must have come up here specially to kill her. So it seems that he wasn’t just after valuables… and, of course, we won’t know if anything valuable has gone until Mr Stone is a little more…’ He made a gesture with his hands to suggest stability. ‘The lady didn’t surprise our man because it’s clear that she was murdered where she was found.’ Thornton took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Maybe murder was the motive, and the burglary bit is a bit of show.’

‘A sleight of hand, Edward? Very much in keeping with my line of thinking.’

‘What is your precise line of thinking?’

‘Nothing definite as yet. I agree that murder – rather than theft – appears to be the motive, but as for the rest … well, I’m afraid the waters are too cloudy at the moment, but something tells me that all is not as it seems.’

‘And then there’s this mysterious attacker in the street. Are you sure you didn’t get a good look at him?’

Darke shook his head. ‘I can tell you nothing about him, not even his height. He was too far away and in shadow. Carla will give you the same story.’

‘You don’t suppose he could be the murderer do you?’ asked Grey, stifling a yawn.

Thornton pursed his lips. ‘At the beginning of an investigation we have to consider every eventuality. What do you think, Luther? Could he have run up here and murdered Mrs Stone and got away before you arrived?’

‘It’s possible, I suppose, but unlikely,’ Darke said. ‘I think she was murdered before the attack. The whole affair seems strange. What would be the motive for murdering Mrs Stone, I wonder? I suppose it’s possible that someone has a grudge against Stone and wanted to take some kind of revenge against him. He’s certainly not the most charming of men.’

‘We’ll have to ask him if he has any ideas – but not now. He looks like he’s had his brain scrambled. Poor devil. We’d better get him to the Yard for the night so’s we can interview him in the morning. Perhaps you’d like to be in on that.’

Darke nodded.

‘Very well, come along to my office at eleven tomorrow.’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

Darke and Carla walked slowly back to the hill, in search of a cab. Their minds were awhirl with the evening’s events.

‘I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something I’m not seeing,’ said Darke softly, almost to himself.

Carla smiled. ‘You’re not seeing the fellow with the knife.’

‘That’s true, but then neither are you. And where did he go? He vanished from view pretty sharpish.’

‘Rather like you in the sack before they set it alight. The Disappearing Man.’

‘Exactly. Just like an illusion.’

Darke found a cab and escorted Carla home, before returning to his own quarters in Manchester Square. His mind was too active for sleep so, slipping on his smoking jacket and pouring himself a large whisky, he sat before the dying embers of the fire and ran over the events of the evening yet again. There was something unreal, contrived about things, as though he and Carla had participated in some kind of new magic act. At first he blamed his over-active imagination. He admitted that his fascination with mystery and illusion led him to see such affectations in normal life. But he knew that this excuse did not carry weight. He was certain that the incidents he had witnessed that evening were not exactly as they had been portrayed. Something was not real. That was his instinct, and he always trusted his instinct. There was some subterfuge at work, but at present he could not fathom what.

He took himself slowly through all that had happened that night, from the moment Carla had entered his dressing room until Edward had arrived at Stone’s house. He used his mind as a third eye, seeing himself along with the other characters in the strange drama. It was a three-dimensional dumb show. As the images paraded before his inner vision, he began to get a tingling sensation on the back of his neck.

‘Maybe,’ he said slowly, opening his eyes, his lips trembling on the brink of a smile. ‘Maybe.’

As he sat back in his chair and took a meditative sip of whisky, his cat Persephone emerged from out of the shadows and leapt into his lap.

‘Hello, my dear. Where have you been hiding?’ murmured Darke, stroking the cat. The cat purred gently in response. ‘It’s as though you have been conjured out of thin air,’ observed Darke dreamily, the thin smile turning into a grin and brightening his features.

The early morning streets were still very quiet as Luther Darke made his way back to Golders Green, to the spot where Stone had been attacked – attacked by ‘the disappearing man’, as he now thought of him. He inspected the area carefully for some clue as to the assailant’s identity. He walked down the narrow alleyway that ran off at a tangent from the main thoroughfare. Stone had been adamant that his assailant had not gone down there, but Darke investigated anyway. He knew that he could not take anything at face value in this matter. Face value is the shield that helps the illusionist carry out his deception. It was a narrow, featureless avenue – featureless apart from an old wooden box tucked into a large crevice in the wall, some six feet down from the road. Darke found no difficulty in pulling the box out from its hiding place and opening the lid. As he examined the contents of the box, he beamed broadly.

At around ten o’clock, Luther Darke picked Carla up for their appointment with Inspector Thornton at Scotland Yard. As they journeyed in the cab, Carla announced, somewhat breathlessly, ‘I’ve received some information this morning which could be very helpful in solving the murder.’

‘And so have I,’ grinned Darke, holding up a small suitcase.

‘Well then, we need to exchange ideas before we meet Edward.’

‘I agree. So give me your news. I am all aquiver with anticipation.’

Carla pursed her lips in mock disapproval at Darke’s sarcasm. ‘You’re not the only one who can play detective, you know,’ she said tartly.

‘I’m aware of that, my dear. Now tell me what you know … what have you discovered?’

‘Well, I just cannot accept that burglary nonsense last night. I believe Mrs Stone was murdered for a reason, and the mess downstairs was meant to make it look like a burglary.’

‘That’s how I see matters, also.’

‘I also believe that Stone is involved in the murder. I’m not sure in what way, and how he managed to carry it out, but I think I have discovered a motive.’

‘Go on.’

‘I rang a friend of mine this morning, a fellow who works on one of the financial papers in the city. I asked him if he knew anything of the fortunes of Charles Stone. Did he! He knew quite a bit about our grumpy diner. Apparently Stone has been involved in several disastrous deals recently and he is heading for bankruptcy. His cachet in the City is at zero. And what is more, it is rumoured that his relations with his wife, his third by the way, were far from harmonious.’

‘Interesting,’ said Darke.

‘So … if you’ve got a fat insurance policy on your wife, the wife you don’t care for any more, all you have to do is bump her off, collect the cash and save your own financial skin.’

‘You would have to be a cold, calculating demon to do that.’

‘Well, he is, isn’t he? Look at the way he behaved in the restaurant last night…’

‘That hardly condemns him as a murderer.’

‘No … but you know of his reputation as well.’

Darke nodded. ‘Of course. I was just playing Devil’s advocate. We are obviously thinking along the same lines. In fact, the motive was one of the missing pieces in my theory, and your idea is credible.’

‘Credible! It’s more than probable.’

‘But is it possible? Remember, our friend Stone was in the restaurant last night, round about the time his wife was murdered, and then we saw him being attacked on the way home. How could he have killed her? She’d been dead less than half an hour at the most when we got there.’

Carla slumped back in her seat with a sigh. ‘I don’t know how. I … I just know he did it.’

Darke chuckled and placed his hand on hers. ‘Of course he did it. And I know how.’

The interview at Scotland Yard with Charles Stone was a fruitless affair. He claimed a certain amnesia concerning the ‘terrible events of the previous evening’ and could tell them nothing that they did not already know. Somewhat angry and frustrated, Thornton was at a loss as to what to do next when Luther Darke made his dramatic announcement.

‘I believe that I can settle this matter once and for all and bring the murderer of Mrs Stone to justice. For this, we must return to Leonardo’s restaurant late this afternoon.’

At dusk that day Luther Darke, Carla, Inspector Edward Thornton, Sergeant Grey and Charles Stone gathered in the main dining room of Leonardo’s restaurant. The owner was also present, and he looked most unhappy. ‘I hope this won’t take long Inspector, I am due to open my restaurant in half an hour. I don’t want my customers to know the police have been here. That will not be very good for business.’

‘I’m hoping that it won’t take long either,’ said Thornton, uneasy about agreeing to this meeting. Darke had been infuriatingly secretive about it, only assuring him that it would clear up ‘this nasty business’ once and for all.

‘I presume there is a good reason for all of this,’ snapped Stone brusquely. The grieving widower of the previous evening had disappeared altogether and in his place was the rude, irritable curmudgeon Darke and Carla had first encountered in the restaurant the previous evening.

‘This is Mr Darke’s idea, and it had better be a good one,’ Thornton observed dryly, throwing his friend a glance.

Luther Darke’s eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘I don’t believe it will be a waste of anyone’s time. I just wanted to demonstrate how Mr Charles Stone here carried out the murder of his wife.’

‘Why you blackguard,’ roared Stone, who rushed forward, fists clenched in readiness to attack Darke.

Sergeant Grey stepped forward to restrain him. ‘Let him have his say, sir.’

‘It’s outrageous. He’s telling lies,’ Stone cried, wriggling under his restraint.

‘I’ll be the judge of that, Mr Stone,’ said Thornton. ‘Now, Luther, can you please get to the point?’

Darke stepped forward and gave a little bow, as though he was about to give a performance. ‘It is no secret that Mr Stone is in great need of money. Also, it is a fact that there is a very large insurance policy on his wife’s life, which will provide him with more than the necessary funds to salvage his business.’

Stone was about to object again, but Grey’s firm hand on his shoulder stopped him.

‘So much for a motive to remove the lady. But what about the modus operandi? That was, if I may say so, quite ingenious. Mr Stone dined here in this restaurant last night. He arrived shortly after Carla and I did, around ten o’clock. We certainly knew he was here, as did all the other customers, because of his noisy complaints and obstreperous behaviour. He was, by his ostentatious and dramatic performance, making certain that many people would remember him, thus establishing his alibi. However, he did disappear for a short time to visit the lavatory. Now gentlemen, if you’d be kind enough to come with me to the lavatories, I can explain more easily what happened next.’

‘I’m coming, too,’ said Carla.

‘Of course,’ agreed Darke.

Once the group had assembled in the small room, Luther Darke indicated a window at the rear of the dank chamber. ‘This is generally kept unlocked and…’ – he opened the window wide – ‘…it would be easy enough for a man to slip out of this aperture. Stone lives less than five minutes’ walk away from here, less if you run. I have timed the journey. He need only have been absent from the restaurant for about fifteen minutes at the most, giving him time to go home, murder his wife and create an impression of a burglary before returning, climbing back in through the window. He would hardly be missed. No one times someone’s visit to the urinal.’ Darke laughed at this final observation, but no one else did.

‘One other point which Mr Stone overlooked,’ he continued. ‘When we arrived at his house last night, the door was ajar and yet there was no sign of a forced entry. Obviously Stone had let himself into his quarters to carry out his plan.’

Stone said nothing, but merely glowered at Darke, his eyes bulging with hatred.

Luther Darke then led the party outside the restaurant. It was now almost dark and the stars were starting to break through the deepening blue of night.

‘For the next part of my demonstration, I must disappear for a moment. In the meantime, Carla will take up the story.’ So saying, Darke turned on his heel and at some speed raced up the hill, carrying with him his small suitcase. All eyes turned to Carla.

‘After Mr Stone had created his alibi in the restaurant, he went one step further to strengthen it and establish his innocence. For this, he required a witness. As luck would have it, he secured two: Luther and myself. When he saw us about to leave the restaurant, he pushed passed us, ensuring that he was out onto the street first. On departing Leonardo’s, we saw what we thought was Mr Stone being attacked about halfway up the hill.’ Carla pointed up the street, and then placing two fingers in her mouth, she emitted a shrill whistle. As she did so, two figures appeared on the bend of the hill at the exact spot where Stone had been attacked the night before. The figures, just touched by the rays of the gas lamp, appeared to be involved in a ferocious struggle. ‘Help, murder!’ cried one of them.

‘My God, what’s happening?’ cried Sergeant Grey.

‘Come along and we’ll show you,’ said Carla leading the way.

The group moved quickly up the hill towards the struggling figures. As they drew near, they could see that one of the men was in fact Luther Darke, while the other was not a man at all.

‘Meet my assailant,’ announced Darke grandly. ‘It’s a stuffed dummy – a bundle of rags in the rough shape of a man, rather like a children’s Guy on bonfire night but very convincing from a distance, eh? In shadow and silhouette from some yards away, this bundle of rags takes on the illusion of being a real man, a real assailant. When Stone had caught our attention with his histrionics, he slipped around the bend in the hill and quickly disposed of the dummy in an old box which he had secreted down the alley there. So by the time I arrived on the scene, his assailant had gone: the disappearing man.’

‘Thus the alibi was strengthened,’ explained Carla. ‘The poor man had been attacked on his way home. He could have been murdered. He was a victim, too, just like his wife. Then, at his request, we walked him home, so that we would discover his dead wife’s body with him. He was leaving nothing to chance.’

‘It’s a pack of damned lies,’ cried Stone, but there was no conviction in the voice.

‘It was just your misfortune, Mr Stone,’ said Darke, ‘that unwittingly you involved my services in your nefarious schemes. I am rather adept at illusions myself.’

Stone made a move to run, but Sergeant Grey blocked his way.

‘Clap the darbies on him and get him back to the Yard,’ said Inspector Thornton.

A tirade of obscenities escaped Stone’s lips as Grey handcuffed him.

‘A very neat job, Luther,’ grinned Thornton, patting his old friend on his back. ‘How did you work it out?’

‘Strangely, the use of a dummy instead of a real man is a ploy used by Merlin the Magnificent in one of his illusions in his stage act at the theatre down the road. It is a case of devious minds thinking alike.’

‘And who is Merlin the Magnificent?’ asked Thornton with some puzzlement.

‘Let’s say that he’s a close friend of mine, Edward.’

At these words, both Darke and Carla burst into laughter, much to the confusion of their friend.

About the Author

David Stuart Davies left teaching to become editor of Sherlock Magazine and is generally regarded as an expert on Sherlock Holmes, having written six novels, film books and plays featuring the character. He has given presentations on Holmes at many festivals and conferences as well as on board the Queen Mary II. He appeared as toastmaster at the Sherlock Holmes Dinner at Bloody Scotland in 2012 – Scotland’s first international crime writing festival. He also created his own detective, wartime private eye Johnny Hawke, who has appeared in six novels. David’s latest detective thriller, Brothers in Blood (The Mystery Press, 2013), is set in the north of England in the 1980s and introduces Detective Chief Inspector Paul Snow. He has just completed the second in this series, Innocent Blood. David is a member of the national committee of the Crime Writers Association, editing their monthly magazine Red Herrings. He lives in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire.

COPYRIGHT

Illustration: © Chris Senior

First published in 2014

The History Press

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This ebook edition first published in 2014

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