The Darke Chronicles E-Book

David Stuart Davies

• Herausgeber: The Mystery Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 299

Beschreibung

The Darke Chronicles introduces the aristocratic and flamboyant Victorian detective Luther Darke, who tackles mysteries that have baffled Scotland Yard and are seemingly unexplained. The cases featured here take Darke into a world of deception, murderous sleights of hand, spiritualism, vampires, curses and phantoms in fin de siècle London. This volume, a treat for all fans of vintage crime fiction, features seven of Darke's most challenging and chilling investigations. If you like Sherlock Holmes, then you will love Luther Darke.

Leseprobe

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