They had not seen Lestrade – or if they had, had chosen to ignore him. However, Edgar recognised both Jones and myself and, nudging his brother, led him over to us.
‘What’s this?’ Leland demanded. His voice was hoarse and he breathed heavily as if the act of speaking exhausted him.
‘I know them,’ Edgar explained. ‘This one is a Pinkerton’s man. He didn’t trouble to give me his name. The other is Alan Jones or something of the sort. Scotland Yard. They were at Bladeston House.’
‘What do you want?’
The question was aimed at Jones and he replied. ‘We are searching for a man named Clarence Devereux.’
‘I don’t know him. He’s not here.’
‘I told you I was unacquainted with him,’ Edgar added. ‘So why have you come here? If you wanted membership, you could have asked when we met in Highgate. Although I think you may find our annual fees a little beyond your means.’
By now, Lestrade had noticed the exchange and came striding over. ‘You are Leland Mortlake?’ he demanded.
‘I am Edgar Mortlake. That’s my brother, if you wish to speak to him.’
‘We’re looking for—’
‘I know who you’re looking for. I’ve already said. He’s not here.’
‘Nobody is leaving here tonight until they have given me proof of their identity,’ Lestrade said. ‘I wish to see the register of your guests – their names and addresses. I intend to search this club from the top floor to the basement.’
‘You cannot.’
‘I very much think I can, Mr Mortlake. And I will.’
‘You had a man staying here at the beginning of the year,’ I said. ‘He was here until the end of April. His name was Jonathan Pilgrim.’
‘What of him?’
‘You remember him?’
Leland Mortlake stared vacantly, his small eyes still filled with resentment. But it was his brother who answered my question. ‘Yes. I believe we did have a guest with that name.’
‘What room?’
‘The Revere. On the second floor.’ The information was given reluctantly.
‘Has it been occupied since?’
‘No. It’s empty.’
‘I’d like to see it.’
Leland turned to his brother and for a moment I thought the two of them were going to protest. But before either of them could speak, Jones stepped forward. ‘Mr Chase is with me and he has the authorisation of Scotland Yard. Take us to the room.’
‘Whatever you say.’ Edgar Mortlake looked at us with controlled fury and had we not been in London, surrounded by the British police, I cannot say what might have ensued. ‘But this is the second time you have bossed me about and I can tell you, Mr Jones, that I don’t like it. There won’t be a third time, of that I can assure you.’
‘Are you threatening us?’ I demanded. ‘Are you forgetting who we are?’
‘I’m just saying that I won’t stand for it.’ Edgar lifted a finger. ‘And it is you, perhaps, who has forgotten who you’re dealing with, Mr Pinkerton. You may rue the day that you chose to interfere.’
‘Dry up, Edgar!’ Leland muttered.
‘Whatever you say, Leland,’ Edgar returned.
‘This is an outrage,’ the older brother continued. ‘But you must do as you want. We have nothing to hide.’
We left Lestrade with them, the police already beginning the long process of interviewing each and every one of the guests, painstakingly noting down their details. Together, we climbed the stairs, arriving at a narrow corridor running left and right. On one side, there was another large room lit by candelabra and with several tables covered with green baize. Evidently, this was where the gaming took place. We did not enter it, following the corridor in the other direction past several bedrooms, each one named after a famous Bostonian. Revere was about halfway down. The door was unlocked.
‘I cannot imagine what it is that you hope to find,’ Jones muttered as we went in.
‘I’m not sure I expect to find anything,’ I replied. ‘Inspector Lestrade said that he had already been here. And yet Pilgrim was a clever man. If he thought himself to be in danger, there’s a chance he might have tried to leave something behind.’
‘One thing is certain. There is nothing to be discovered downstairs.’
‘I quite agree.’
At first glance, the room was unpromising. There was a bed, freshly made, and a closet, empty. Another door led into a bathroom with both a water closet and a gas-heated bath. The Bostonian certainly knew how to look after its guests and I could not help feeling envious, remembering my own shabby hotel. The wallpaper, curtains and furnishings were all of the highest quality. We began a search, opening the drawers, pulling up the mattress, even turning the pictures, but it was clear that once Jonathan Pilgrim had left, the room had been stripped and cleaned.
‘This is a waste of time,’ I said.
‘So it would seem. And yet … what have we here?’ As Jones spoke, he leafed through a pile of magazines that stood on an occasional table at the foot of the bed.
‘There is nothing,’ I said. ‘I’ve already looked.’
It was true. I had quickly thumbed through the magazines – The Century, The Atlantic Monthly, The North American Review. But it was not the publications that interested Jones. He had pulled out a small advertising card from one of them and showed it to me. I read:
POSITIVELY THE BEST HAIR TONIC
HORNER’S ‘LUXURIANT’
The world-renowned remedy for baldness, grey hair
and weak or thin moustaches.
Physicians and Analysts pronounce it to be perfectly safe
and devoid of any Metallic or other injurious Ingredients.
Manufactured only by Albert Horner
13 Chancery Lane, London E1.
‘Jonathan Pilgrim was not bald,’ I said. ‘He had a fine head of hair.’
Jones smiled. ‘You see but you do not observe. Look at the name – Horner. And the address: number thirteen!’
‘Horner 13!’ I exclaimed. They were the words we had found in the diary in Scotchy Lavelle’s desk.
‘Exactly. And if your agent was as capable as you suggest, it is quite possible that he left this here on purpose in the hope that it would be found. It would, of course, mean nothing to anyone cleaning the room.’
‘It means nothing to me either! What can a hair tonic possibly have to do with Clarence Devereux or with the murders at Bladeston House?’
‘We shall see. It seems that for once, and despite his best efforts, Lestrade has actually helped our investigation. It makes a change.’ Jones slipped the advertisement into his pocket. ‘We will say nothing of this, Chase. Agreed?’
‘Of course.’
We left the room, closing the door behind us, and made our way back downstairs.
TEN
Horner’s of Chancery Lane
It was just as well that Horner’s advertised itself with a red and white barber’s pole for otherwise we might not have found it. To begin with, it wasn’t actually on Chancery Lane. There was a narrow, muddy thoroughfare that ran down to Staples Inn Garden with a haberdasher’s – Reilly & Son – and the Chancery Lane Safe Deposit Company on the corner and a little row of very shabby houses opposite. The barber shop occupied the front parlour of one of these with a sign above the door and a further advertisement in the window: Shaving 1d; haircut 2d. On one side was a tobacconist that had closed down. The house on the other side looked fairly abandoned too.
A hurdy-gurdy man was playing in the street, perched on a stool and wearing a ragged top hat and a worn-out, shapeless coat. He was not very accomplished. Indeed, had I been working in the vicinity, he would have driven me quite mad with the almost tuneless howling and tinkling of his instrument. The moment he saw us, he stood and called out: ‘Hair tonic in the ha’porths and pen’orths. Try Horner’s special hair tonic! Get your cut or your shave here!’ He was an odd fellow, very thin and unsteady on his feet. As we approa
ched, he stopped playing and handed us a card from a satchel slung over his shoulder. It was identical to the one we had found at the Bostonian.
We entered the building and found ourselves in a small, uncomfortable room with a single barber’s chair facing a mirror so cracked and dusty that it barely showed any reflection at all. There were two shelves lined with bottles of Horner’s Luxuriant as well as other hair restorers and cantharides lotions. The floor hadn’t been swept and tufts of old hair were still strewn across it – as unsavoury a sight as one could wish to see, though not as bad as the soap bowl, a congealed mess which still carried the spiky fragments of men’s beards. I was already beginning to think that this was the last place in London I would wish to come for a haircut when the barber himself arrived.
He had climbed up a staircase in the back parlour and tottered towards us, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. It was hard to determine his age – he was both old and young at the same time with a round, quite pleasant face, clean-shaven and smiling. But he had a terrible haircut. Indeed, it was as if he had been attacked by a cat. His hair was long on one side, short on the other with patches missing altogether, exposing his skull. Nor had it been washed for some time, leaving it with both a colour and a texture that was disagreeable to say the least.
He was, however, amiable enough. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he exclaimed. ‘Although this cursed weather refuses to change! Have you ever known London so wet and so miserable and here we are in May! What can I do for you? One haircut? Two haircuts? You are fortunate in that I am very quiet today.’
This was true in every sense. Outside, the hurdy-gurdy player had at last chosen to take a rest.
‘We are not here for a haircut,’ Jones replied. He picked up one of the bottles and smelled the contents. ‘Do I take it you are Albert Horner?’
‘No, sir. Bless you! Mr Horner died long ago. But this was his business and I took it over.’
‘Quite recently, by the look of it,’ Jones remarked. I glanced at him, wondering how he could have come to such a conclusion for, to my eye, both the man and the shop could have been here for years. ‘The barber’s pole is old,’ Jones continued, for my benefit. ‘But I could not help noticing that the screws fastening it to the wall are new. The shelves may be dusty, but the bottles are not. That tells the same tale.’
‘You’re absolutely right!’ the barber exclaimed. ‘We’ve been here less than three months and we kept the old name. And why not? Old Mr Horner was well known and much admired. We’re already popular among the lawyers and the judges who work in this area – even if many of them insist on wearing wigs.’
‘So what is your name?’ I asked.
‘Silas Beckett, sir, at your service.’
Jones produced the advertisement. ‘We found this in a club called the Bostonian. I take it that name means nothing to you, or the man who was staying there. An American gentleman called Jonathan Pilgrim.’
‘American, sir? I don’t believe I’ve ever had an American in here.’ He gestured at me. ‘Apart from yourself.’
Beckett was no detective. It was my accent that had given me away.
‘And the name Scotchy Lavelle – have you heard it?’
‘I speak to my customers, sir. But it’s not often they tell me their name. Was he another American?’
‘And Clarence Devereux?’
‘You’re running ahead of me, sir. So many names! Can I interest you in a bottle of our hair tonic?’ He asked this almost impertinently, as if he were anxious to bring the interview to an end.
‘Do you know him?’
‘Clarence Devereux? No, sir. Perhaps you might try across the road, at the haberdasher’s. I am very sorry that I cannot be of assistance. In short, it would seem we are wasting each other’s time.’
‘That may be so, Mr Beckett, but there is just one thing you can tell me that would interest me.’ I saw Jones examining the barber carefully. ‘Are you a religious man?’
The question was so unexpected that I’m not sure who was more surprised – Beckett or I. ‘I’m sorry?’ He blinked.
‘Religious. Do you go to church?’
‘Why do you ask?’ Jones said nothing and Beckett sighed, clearly anxious to be rid of us. ‘No, sir, for my sins, I am not a regular churchgoer.’
‘It is just as I thought,’ Jones muttered. ‘You have made it quite clear that you cannot help us, Mr Beckett. I will wish you a good day.’
We left the barber’s shop and walked back up to Chancery Lane. Behind us, the hurdy-gurdy player struck up again. As soon as we turned the corner, Jones stopped and laughed. ‘We have stumbled onto something quite remarkable here, my boy. Holmes himself would have been entertained by this: a barber who cannot cut hair, a hurdy-gurdy player who cannot play, and a hair tonic that contains large quantities of benzoin. Hardly a three-pipe problem, but not without interest.’
‘But what is the meaning of it?’ I exclaimed. ‘And why did you ask Mr Beckett about his religious beliefs?’
‘Is it not obvious to you?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Well, it will be made clear soon enough. We are having dinner together tonight. Why not come to Scotland Yard at three o’clock? We can meet outside, as we did before, and then everything will be explained.’
Three o’clock.
I was there exactly on time, stepping out of my hansom on Whitehall with Big Ben chiming the hour. We had stopped on the far side of the road, which is to say, the one opposite Scotland Yard. I paid the driver. It was a bright, cloudless afternoon, though still a little chilly.
I must set down exactly what happened.
Ahead of me, crossing the road, I saw a boy whom I recognised instantly. It was Perry, who had sat next to me in the Café Royal and who had held a knife to my neck. I stood there and it seemed to me that everything had become very still, as if an artist had taken the scene and captured it on a canvas. Even at a distance, Perry was enveloped in what I can only describe as an aura of menace. This time, he was dressed as a naval cadet. He had a cap, a dark blue double-fronted jacket with two lines of buttons, and a leather pouch hanging diagonally across his chest. As before, he seemed to be squeezed into the uniform he was wearing, his stomach pressing against the waistband, his neck too large for the collar. His hair looked even more yellow in the afternoon sun.
Why was he here? What was he doing?
Athelney Jones appeared, walking out of Scotland Yard, looking for me, and I raised a hand in alarm. Jones saw me and I pointed in the direction of the boy, who was walking briskly down the pavement, his plump little legs carrying him ever further away.
Jones recognised him but he was too far away to do anything.
There was a brougham waiting for Perry, barely fifty yards from where I was standing. As he approached it, a door opened. There was a man inside, half hidden in the shadows. He was tall, thin, dressed entirely in black. It was impossible to make out his face but I thought I heard him cough. Had Jones seen him? It was unlikely for he was quite a distance ahead and on the wrong side of the road. The boy climbed into the brougham. The door closed behind him.
Without any further thought, I ran towards it. I saw the driver whip up the horse and the carriage jolted forward – but even so I might have been able to reach it. Jones was on the edge of my vision. He had begun to move too, using his walking stick to lever himself forward. The brougham continued down Whitehall, picking up speed, heading for Parliament Square. I was running as fast as I could but I wasn’t getting any nearer. To reach it, I had to cross Whitehall but there was a great deal of traffic. Already, the brougham was disappearing around the corner.
I veered to one side. I had left the pavement and I was in the road.
Athelney Jones cried out a warning. I didn’t hear him but I saw him calling to me, his hand raised.
Suddenly, there was an omnibus bearing down on me. At first, I did not see it for two horses filled my vision: huge, monstrous, with staring eyes. They could have bee
n joined together, a single creature drawn from Greek mythology. Then I became aware of the vehicle being hauled behind them, the driver pulling at the reins, the half a dozen people crowded together on the roof, trapped there, horrified witnesses to the unfolding drama.
Somebody screamed. The driver was still struggling with the reins and I was aware of hooves pounding down, the wheels grinding against the hard surface, that same surface rushing up at me as I threw myself forward. The whole world tilted and the sky swept across my vision.
I might have been killed, but in fact the omnibus missed me by inches, veering away and then drawing to a halt a short distance ahead. I had cracked my head and my knee but I was unaware of the pain. I twisted round, looking for the brougham, but it had already gone. The boy and his travelling companion had made their escape.
Jones reached me. To this day, I am not sure how he managed to cover the distance so quickly. ‘Chase!’ he exclaimed. ‘My dear fellow! Are you all right? You were almost crushed …’
‘Did you see them?’ I demanded. ‘Perry! The boy from the Café Royal! He was here. And there was a man with him …’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see his face?’
‘No. A man in his forties or fifties, perhaps, tall and thin. But he was concealed, inside the carriage.’
‘Help me …’
Jones was leaning down, helping me to my feet. I was aware of a little blood trickling past my eye and wiped it away. ‘What was it all about, Jones?’ I asked. ‘Why were they here?’
My question was answered seconds later.
The explosion was so close that we felt it as well as heard it, a blast of wind and dust rushing to us where we stood. All around us, horses whinnied and carriages veered out of control as the drivers fought with the reins. I saw two hansoms collide with each other and one tilted and crashed to the ground. Men and women who had been walking past stopped, clutching onto each other, turning in alarm. Pieces of brick and glass rained down on us and a smell of burning pervaded the air. I looked round. A huge plume of smoke was rising up from within Scotland Yard. Of course! What else could have been the target?