Blackstone and the Burning Secret (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 4) Read online

  Mr Hoskins looked as if he were a little unsure how to react for a moment. Then he laughed.

  ‘Yes, we could say that,’ he admitted. ‘I felt it my duty, as I always do, to protect the family from the intrusion of a hostile, outside world. I did not think a policeman in a…in a…’

  ‘In an obviously second-hand suit?’ Blackstone supplied.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mr Hoskins said. ‘I did not think a man from your background would have the finesse to deal with the delicate situations which inevitably exist in a house of this nature—and in a family of this nature.’ He paused. ‘What is your opinion of the port, Mr Blackstone?’

  ‘It’s very good,’ said Blackstone, who would rather have had a pint of best bitter in his hand than this delicate, crystal glass.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to say so,’ the butler acknowledged. ‘Now where was I?’

  ‘You thought I’d rampage through this house like a wild bull in a china shop?’

  ‘Indeed I did. But I was wrong about you, Mr Blackstone. You are a sensitive man, and you handled yourself—and the whole affair—with the greatest of discretion. I think it is fair to say that the family’s reputation could have been severely damaged by that rather unpleasant and regrettable incident, and the fact that it was not is largely due to you.’

  ‘I think you rather overrate the part I played, Mr Hoskins,’ Blackstone said modestly.

  ‘I do not,’ Hoskins insisted. ‘I will go even further in my praise of you. Had you chosen to enter service instead of the police force, I am convinced you would eventually have risen to be a very fine butler indeed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘But you are not here to reminisce, are you? No one ever comes to see a butler unless they have a problem which needs solving. What is your problem, Mr Blackstone?’

  ‘I’m pleased you recall your first reaction to me,’ Blackstone said. ‘I also understand—and sympathise with—the thinking behind it. And that is where my current problem really begins. Whenever a case brings me into contact with a butler I have not met before, I must convince him that his preconceived notions are wrong. That takes time. And time, as you will readily appreciate, is in somewhat short supply during a criminal investigation.’

  Mr Hoskins took a long, thoughtful sip of his port. ‘You want an introduction to another butler,’ he said finally.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Am I acquainted with the butler in question?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Because if I am not, I fail to see what purpose an introduction from me will serve.’

  Blackstone did no more than chuckle.

  ‘I was not aware I was being amusing,’ Mr Hoskins said.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter whether you know him or not,’ Blackstone said. ‘He will be aware of your reputation, and that will give your introduction all the weight it needs.’

  ‘You’re flattering me,’ Mr Hoskins said.

  ‘Am I?’ Blackstone asked, noncommittally.

  Mr Hoskins laughed. ‘But even if it is flattery, it is also the truth,’ he conceded. ‘Appending my name to a document does give that document a certain gravity.’ He paused again. ‘Who is it you wish to speak to?’

  ‘Lord Lansdowne’s butler.’

  The pause was even longer this time. ‘Lord Lansdowne is in the Government,’ he said finally.

  ‘I’m well aware of that,’ Blackstone replied. ‘So was your master, the last time we met.’

  ‘Am I to take it, then, that this is a matter of national importance?’ Mr Hoskins asked.

  ‘It is a matter which has already involved the death of one man, and may yet involve more. Whether or not that makes it a matter of national importance, I wouldn’t like to say—but it is certainly important enough for me to ask for your help, and for you to be willing to give it.’

  The butler nodded slowly. ‘I will write you your letter, Mr Blackstone,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hoskins,’ Blackstone replied.

  26

  Mr Chalmers’s sitting room was almost identical to the one occupied by Mr Hoskins, and—like his fellow butler—Chalmers carried with him all the weightiness of a prime minister.

  ‘I would not normally have consented to this meeting, Inspector,’ the butler said.

  In his younger days, Blackstone would have been outraged by such a comment.

  ‘Consented!’ he would have demanded. ‘For God’s sake, who needs your consent? I’m a police officer, going about my lawful duty, and I don’t need the consent of anyone!’

  He didn’t say that now. The intervening years had taught him a good deal, and whilst he didn’t like the way the system worked, he had long ago decided that given the choice of working within it, or not working at all, he would extract from it all that he could.

  ‘It is only because you brought with you a letter of introduction from the estimable Mr Hoskins that I ever contemplated seeing you,’ the butler continued, ‘and even so, if I think that your questions prejudice my master’s interests in any way, I will be forced to refrain from answering them.’

  ‘That is completely understood,’ Blackstone said, ‘but since all I wish you to do is to attempt to identify two people for me, I cannot imagine your master’s interests would be in the least endangered.’

  ‘We will see about that,’ the butler said, ever cautious. ‘Would you be so good as to show me your pictures?’

  The first sketch which Blackstone showed the butler was the one of Workhouse Man.

  ‘Do you know him?’ he asked.

  Mr Chalmers studied the sketch for some moments. ‘It certainly looks like Mr McClusky,’ he conceded.

  ‘And who is Mr McClusky?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘He is the manager of His Lordship’s country estate.’

  ‘How do you happen to know him? Do you serve His Lordship both here and at the estate?’

  The butler grimaced, as if Blackstone had struck a nerve. ‘It would be well within my capabilities to do so,’ he said, ‘but His Lordship insists—for what, I am sure, are perfectly valid reasons—on having one butler for London and one for the estate.’

  ‘So it’s in London where you’ve seen this McClusky?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In this house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was like pulling wisdom teeth, Blackstone thought grimly. ‘And what was McClusky doing here?’ he asked.

  The butler seemed at a loss as to how to answer. ‘He has been here as a guest,’ he said finally.

  ‘A guest?’

  ‘Mr McClusky is not perhaps quite a gentleman in the strictest interpretation of the word, but he is certainly considered good enough to attend some of His Lordship’s less prestigious dinner parties.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘He was up in town last week.’

  Just about the time that ‘Lord Moneybags’ and his friends made their last visit to the Austro-Hungary Club, Blackstone noted.

  ‘And this man?’ the Inspector asked, producing the sketch of the other man who accompanied Moneybags to the club.

  ‘It could be the Honourable Charles Davenport,’ the butler said. ‘In fact, I’m sure it is.’

  ‘And is this the same man?’ Blackstone asked, producing the photograph of the corpse which had been fished out of the river.

  ‘Yes, but…but in the photograph, he looks dead.’

  ‘And so he is,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘How did he …? Whatever could have…?’

  ‘And what can you tell me about him?’ Blackstone demanded.

  ‘Very little,’ Mr Chalmers said unconvincingly.

  Blackstone sighed. ‘Has he been a guest at this house?’

  ‘On occasions.’

  ‘But not recently?’

  ‘No, not recently.’

  ‘And what is the reason for that?’

  The butler’s face froze, as if an iron grille had suddenly descended over it.
‘On reflection, I have decided that it is not my place to discuss my master’s guests with you,’ he said.

  ‘What are you holding back from telling me?’ Blackstone prodded. ‘Has Davenport done something wrong?’

  ‘I think we have spent quite enough time discussing the subject,’ the butler said. He reached for the bell pull. ‘The scullery maid will be here in a moment, to escort you to the door.’

  ‘Mr Chalmers…’ Blackstone began.

  ‘Good day, Inspector Blackstone,’ the butler said resolutely.

  *

  Sergeant Patterson considered the telephone to be the greatest invention of the nineteenth century, and possibly the greatest thing that would—or could—ever be invented. He often treated it as if it had been created solely for him and, watching him use it, Blackstone was almost convinced that it had been.

  Patterson, Blackstone had long ago learned, had a gift for making contacts. He was on first-name terms with newspaper reporters and middle-level civil servants, but also with circus performers, costermongers and shoe-shine boys. It was virtually impossible to take him to a place where he didn’t know someone, and the telephone only added to his reach and his influence.

  He had been on the phone ever since Blackstone had returned to Scotland Yard, and it was only now, after more than an hour had passed, that he finally hung it up again.

  ‘Who do you want to know about first?’ he asked his boss. ‘McClusky or Davenport?’

  ‘McClusky,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘I talked to some people who work at Bowood House, which, as you know, is Lord Lansdowne’s country estate,’ Patterson said.

  ‘I didn’t know, as a matter of fact,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Didn’t you?’ asked Patterson, as if mystified that Blackstone should be missing such a vital piece of knowledge.

  ‘And how does it come about that you know someone there?’ the Inspector asked, intrigued, despite himself.

  ‘Ah, that’s a very interesting story,’ Patterson said. ‘I have a friend who used to be involved in the smoked bacon industry and—’

  ‘Forget it,’ Blackstone said.

  He should have known better than to ask, he told himself. Patterson’s web was so complex and intricate that even an expert in logic would have had trouble following it.

  ‘Anyway, the butler’s wrong about McClusky. He’s not the estate manager, only an assistant estate manager.’

  ‘So how does someone so lowly get to dine with Lord Lansdowne?’ Blackstone wondered.

  ‘Ah, that’s because of the fishing.’

  ‘The fishing?’

  ‘Lord Lansdowne’s almost fanatical about salmon fishing. Apparently, he acquired a taste for it when he was Governor-General of Canada. And McClusky’s reputed to be one of the best salmon fishermen around. Comes from being brought up in Scotland, I suppose.’

  ‘So that connection’s explained,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘And here’s another connection,’ Patterson said, looking immensely proud of himself. ‘Before he went to work for Lord Lansdowne, McClusky was in the Army. And guess what particular branch of the Army.’

  ‘The Royal Engineers,’ Blackstone said.

  Patterson looked a little disappointed. ‘That’s right, the Royal Engineers,’ he admitted. ‘So making the kind of explosive device which destroyed the Golden Tulip would have been an absolute doddle to him. And he’d have been perfectly capable of designing a bomb which looked as if it was intended to go off, while in fact making certain that it wouldn’t.’

  ‘Where’s McClusky now?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘That’s the thing,’ Patterson told him. ‘He got an urgent phone call from Scotland last week. Whoever it was who called said his mother was dying. McClusky told the estate manager that he had to leave for home right away.’

  ‘And is that what he really did?’

  ‘No, it isn’t! A couple of days after he’d left, his mother called the estate manager’s office. Far from having been seriously ill, she said she was as fit as a fiddle.’

  ‘Tell me about Davenport,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘He’s a different kettle of fish altogether,’ Patterson said. He chuckled. ‘Different kettle of fish! That’s rather good, what with McClusky and Lansdowne being fishermen.’

  ‘Get on with it!’ Blackstone said.

  ‘He used to be quite a good friend of Lord Lansdowne’s until the scandal broke.’

  Blackstone sighed. ‘What scandal?’

  ‘According to Edward Totterington, who works for a brokerage firm in the City, and who I know because—’

  ‘I think we can skip that bit,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘It’s very interesting,’ Patterson protested.

  ‘And will it help us to solve this case?’

  ‘Well, not exactly.’

  ‘Then let’s move on.’

  Patterson tried not to look offended. ‘According to Totterington, Davenport comes from quite a good family—the sort of family that’s likely to be invited into the Royal Enclosure at Ascot.’

  ‘I get the picture,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Well, it turns out the Honourable Charles has always been a bit of a black sheep. He’s been a gambler of sorts for most of his life, but over the last few years he’s become more and more addicted to the gaming tables. He was left a small fortune by his grandfather, but he pretty much exhausted that, and a few months ago he started dipping into the coffers of the rest of the family. There was a frightful stink about it, when it all came out. His people were furious, but of course none of the relatives actually wanted to see him go to gaol. Family name and all that.’

  ‘Of course,’ Blackstone said dryly.

  ‘Anyway, Lord Lansdowne distanced himself from Davenport as soon as the whole thing broke. Couldn’t afford to be associated with a scandal—what with being in the Cabinet and everything.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘The Davenport family decided that the best thing to do with the Honourable Charles was to send him abroad. They gave him a small allowance, and packed him off to Italy. As far as they’re concerned—and this according to Edward Totterington again—he’s still there, wandering round ancient ruins and doing his best to keep out of trouble.’

  ‘But we know he isn’t still there,’ Blackstone said. ‘He returned to England and re-established his relationship with Lord Lansdowne. Then the two of them teamed up with McClusky—the salmon fishing expert—and they began visiting at least one gambling club, and possibly more.’

  ‘And found themselves in a deep hole,’ Patterson suggested. ‘So deep that the only way they saw of getting themselves out of it was to blackmail the Government.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘And they were the perfect team, because each of them had something to offer. McClusky had the expertise to start the fires, Davenport had a nature reckless enough to agree to join him.’

  ‘And Lansdowne?’

  ‘Lansdowne was their spy, at the very centre of government. He could keep them informed as to just how the establishment—and especially the Cabinet—was taking their demands.’

  ‘It’s incredible that a man like Lord Lansdowne, with so much to lose, would ever allow himself to get in that sort of situation in the first place,’ Patterson said.

  ‘Never underestimate human weakness,’ Blackstone said. ‘As a driving force, it makes all those modern engines you so admire look like the work of a bumbling amateur.’

  27

  It was a misty morning out on the firing range, but the mist I was not quite so thick that the two artillerymen, positioned behind their field gun, did not have a clear view of Dr Ellie Carr, her assistant, and all the paraphernalia they’d just unloaded from their cart.

  ‘This ain’t right,’ the private complained. ‘I didn’t join the Army to be dragged out of my bed at some god-awful hour of the morning and fire my gun for the benefit of civilians.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ his serge
ant agreed.

  ‘I mean to say—’

  ‘You joined the Army to obey orders. If you’re told to drop your pants and paint your arse canary yellow, that’s just what you do.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘And if you’re told to help a doctor—even a woman doctor—with some kind of lunatic experiment, then you’d better bloody do it without question.’

  ‘She must have a lot of influence with somebody,’ the private muttered moodily.

  ‘It’s the bloke with her who’s got the influence,’ the sergeant informed him. ‘From what I’ve heard, he’s an old drinkin’ mate of the RSM.’

  Which meant he sat on the right hand of God, the private thought—and shuddered.

  ‘What’s them things they’ve got with them?’ he asked.

  ‘The thing with the three stick-legs is a camera of some sort,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘I know that. I mean the other things.’

  He was referring to three handcarts which looked as if they had closed cucumber frames on top of them.

  ‘Ah, they’re what you call “police ambulances”,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘And what are they used for?’

  ‘They’re used for carrying corpses.’

  ‘You mean we’re going to be firing at dead people?’

  ‘That’d be my guess.’

  ‘But we can’t do that!’

  ‘Oh, really?’ the sergeant asked. ‘So will you tell the RSM we’re about to mutiny, or shall I?’

  *

  Ellie Carr looked at the three police ambulances standing side by side. ‘I’d have been a lot happier if we’d had four or five cadavers to conduct our experiments on,’ she said.

  ‘Four or five!’ Jed Trent exploded. ‘Four or bloody five! Don’t you have any idea just how difficult it was to get even three corpses of the same height and weight at the same time?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’ Ellie Carr began.

  But Jed Trent hadn’t finished. ‘Can you even imagine the number of favours I’ve had to call in? Not to mention the number of arms I’ve had to twist? Don’t you understand how much credit we’ve used up to get even three?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Ellie Carr said contritely. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job, Jed.’