[The Victorian Detectives 09] - Desire & Deceit Read online

  Desire & Deceit

  A Victorian Crime Thriller

  Carol Hedges

  Copyright © 2021 by Carol Hedges

  Cover Artwork and Design by RoseWolf Design

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  This edition by Little G Books (July 2021)

  About the Author

  Carol Hedges is the successful British author of 19 books for teenagers and adults. Her writing has received much critical acclaim, and her novel Jigsaw was shortlisted for the Angus Book Award and longlisted for the Carnegie Medal.

  Carol was born in Hertfordshire, and after university, where she gained a BA (Hons.) in English Literature & Archaeology, she trained as a children’s librarian. She worked for the London Borough of Camden for many years subsequently re-training as a secondary school teacher when her daughter was born.

  The Victorian Detectives series

  Diamonds & Dust

  Honour & Obey

  Death & Dominion

  Rack & Ruin

  Wonders & Wickedness

  Fear & Phantoms

  Intrigue & Infamy

  Fame & Fortune

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Gina Dickerson, of RoseWolf Design, for another superb cover, and to my editor.

  I also acknowledge my debt to all those amazing Victorian novelists for lighting the path through the fog with their genius. Unworthily, but optimistically, I follow in their footsteps.

  Desire & Deceit

  A Victorian Crime Thriller

  ‘The end is where we start from.’ ~ T. S. Eliot

  London, 1868. It is June, and predicted to be the hottest summer on record, they say. Day after day of clear blue skies. The sun beats down. Flaming June. Trees in the great parks droop, the swans on the river are stunned. The city swelters and suffers in the unforgiving heat. London was not made for this: it was built for rain ~ its grey stone buildings suit short days and cold nights.

  Now, the streets run with melted tar and smell of equine by-products, and carts go around in the early morning spraying water to set the dust that billows up in choking clouds. The population wilt, sweat and itch in their heavy clothing. Tempers are short; arguments flare over the smallest things: a seat on the underground, a perceived push on a white-hot pavement, the last jam tart in a baker’s shop.

  The cheese trade suffers badly. Labourers in the agricultural industry suffer fatally. A man is found dead in a field of peas that he’d been gathering. But, even in the sweltering unbearable heat, some find beauty as the eternal mists around St Paul’s turn to a glittering haze and the darkest alleys flash golden glimpses in the spendthrift of sunshine.

  Sadly, this golden state does not exist here, in the building that houses Scotland Yard’s famous (or infamous, depending upon which side your crime is committed) detective division. Take Detective Inspector Leo Stride, for instance, who is missing his mugs of treacly black coffee, as the usual coffee-stall holders have betaken themselves to the countryside to escape the London inferno.

  Stride’s caffeine deficiency is manifesting itself in a growing reluctance to tolerate the sloppy written reports that land on his desk every morning from the night patrols, which are now being read with an even more rigid adherence to the correct use of the comma, the apostrophe and the spelling of ‘criminal intent’. He is just engaged in a vicious red-pencilling attack on the latest one, when he is interrupted by his colleague, Detective Sergeant Jack Cully.

  “Message from Robertson: he wishes to see us urgently,” he says.

  Stride raises his head wearily. “Why?”

  Jack Cully gives a ‘search-me’ shrug.

  “Right then,” Stride says grimly, hauling himself to his feet, “let us not keep the good surgeon waiting.”

  The two detectives cross the yard and descend the steps that lead to the police morgue, a cool, white-washed set of rooms, where the various victims of crime are brought to be forensically studied and dissected. Here, Robertson, the dour police surgeon, assisted by his latest medical student, reigns supreme. His disdain for the intellectual abilities and medical knowledge of members of the police force is legendary. His acerbic remarks cut as sharply as the various knives of his trade. He and Stride spar regularly. Stride rarely wins.

  Entering the morgue, Stride feels the temperature drop. Compared to the searing heat outside, the room is pleasantly cool. If it wasn’t for the occupants, alive and dead, coupled with the smell of chemicals, it would be a fine place to work during the unbearable heatwave gripping the city.

  Robertson steps out from behind the wooden dissecting table. “Ah. Here you both are. Thank you for your prompt attendance. A problem has occurred, to which I felt I should draw your attention. It concerns a body.”

  Stride glances at the table. “I see no body.”

  Robertson fixes him with a glittering eye. “Indeed, you do not, detective inspector. Your powers of observation are, as always, beyond reproach. The point is, you should see a body. There was a body brought here in the early hours of the morning. I was informed of its presence when I arrived, and came straight here, intending to commence my examination first thing.”

  “So where is it now?”

  Robertson shakes his head and makes a palms-up gesture. “That is what I also wish to know, and why I sent for you post-haste.”

  “You are seriously telling us that someone stole a dead body?” Cully asks.

  “Unlikely as it may appear, that would seem to be the case,” Robertson replies drily. “Nos non habemus corpus as it were. I am sure I do not need to provide a translation. And I would hardly tell you such information frivolously, detective sergeant.”

  Stride sucks in his breath. “But how did they get it past the desk constable?”

  In response, Robertson leads the way through to the small storeroom at the back, in which the various chemicals, enamel dishes and tools of the trade are kept, stacked neatly on shelves or locked in a glass cabinet.

  “It appears that initial access was gained via breaking a pane in the window over the sink. Once achieved, the door was opened and the body removed.”

  The two detectives examine the broken window pane thoroughly. Then turn their attention to the door.

  “Why isn’t there a better lock on this door?” Stride asks. “It’s only fastened by a single bolt.”

  “Over the years it was thought hardly necessary to secure it; after all, it’s not as if anyone is going to try to escape.”

  Cully opens the door and peers out. “It seems to lead to a small alley.”

  “That is correct. It is the way the constables deliver the bodies. It was thought that to see them brought in by the main entrance might cause alarm to the ladies and those of a delicate disposition. The alley leads to a small side-street with high walls on each side. It is unlikely that anyone would have blundered in accidentally.”

  “Who would want to steal a dead body?” Stride muses.

  “Your question is most apposite,” Robertson replies. “Who indeed? Especially given the current inclement weather.”

  “Do you think it was taken for medical reasons?” Cully asks.

  “Ah, detective sergeant, that is indeed a possibility I have considered myself. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of dispatching young Mr Bennet to make inquiries of local teaching hospitals ~ I decided that he, being of the medical fraternity and also newly qualifi
ed, might arouse less suspicion than your good selves.”

  “Very wise,” Stride grunts.

  Robertson makes him a small mock bow. “Your approbation of my sagacity is much appreciated, detective inspector,” he says drily. He eyes Stride speculatively. “I also assumed, given the ungodly times we inhabit, that this was not a case of furta sacra. Do you not agree?”

  “Can you tell us anything about the dead individual?” Cully inquires quickly, before Stride can chip in with a sarcastic comment or Robertson launch into one of his lengthy explanations of holy relics stolen throughout the centuries.

  Robertson shakes his head. “I know as much as you do. I expect that the constable who brought him in has left a report on one of your desks. No doubt that will fill in the necessary details that I am, alas, unable to supply. I confess I was looking forward to dissecting something. Since the heatwave arrived, there haven’t been many corpses brought in.”

  Stride nods. “Ah. Yes. I hadn’t got around to reading the latest reports,” he says. “I’ll do it right away.” He prepares to leave the mortuary.

  “Festina lente,” Robertson calls after him. “It is much too hot to hurry.”

  The detectives make their way back to Stride’s office. Even at this hour, the air is thick and gravid and both men are sweating by the time they collapse into two chairs. Stride skims through a couple of reports, eventually extracting one. “Here it is. Night Constable Tom Williams. Now then, what does he have to say?”

  Stride runs his gaze down the sheet of paper, occasionally murmuring “Uh-huh,” as he does so. He looks up.

  “Remarkable. How refreshing to read a report that doesn’t begin every paragraph with ‘I was proceeding,’” he says. “Young Constable Williams has clearly had some sort of reasonable education. He can punctuate. More remarkably, he has mastered the use of the apostrophe. Is he still around, do you suppose? I should like to question him about certain aspects of his report.”

  Cully goes to find out, returning sometime later accompanied by a rather sleepy young officer, who’d been attempting to snatch a quick nap in one of the police dormitories where the newest recruits live.

  “This is Constable Williams,” he says, waving the constable to the chair he’d recently vacated. Cully moves to stand next to Stride, behind the desk. He studies the young man. He is of regulation height, well-built. He has dark eyes, brown hair and a frank, open countenance. He regards his two superiors steadily as he waits to be enlightened as to why he has been summoned.

  “The constable was telling me that it was his first turn on night duty,” Cully says to Stride.

  “I see,” Stride says, nodding. “And your first dead body?”

  The young man pulls a face and nods. “Yes, sir. It was.”

  “Well, it certainly won’t be your last,” Stride tells him. He picks up the piece of paper. “Now, about your report …”

  “Is there something amiss with my report, sir?” the constable asks, glancing from one man to the other.

  Both Stride and Cully mentally note the use of ‘amiss’, not a word associated usually with the vocabulary of the lower ranks of the Metropolitan Police.

  “The report is fine,” Stride reassures him. “Very clear and well written. You discovered a young man, lying dead. You examined him. You noted that the body was still warm and rigor mortis had not set in. You also noted he was lying on his side, curled up in a strange way, and that the expression upon his face was such that you decided, on these bases, the man should be taken to the police mortuary, as you did not like to leave him where you found him.

  “The problem is that he appears to have gone missing. So, I just wanted to go through the events of last night with you once more, to see if you might recall anything that could help us understand why somebody should break into the mortuary to remove a dead body.

  “You have given me the facts, now let us see if you can give me your impressions. What do you remember about the body itself, and what made you decide to transfer it to the mortuary rather than just notifying the authorities of its presence?”

  Constable Williams wrinkles his forehead and clasps his hands together as he bends his mind to focus upon events that have already been and gone. The two detectives watch his cogitations in silence. It is a technique honed from years of interrogation. (In their time, they have, between them, outwaited some of the most criminal elements of the city.)

  “I thought it strange that a man so well dressed should be found dead in such an obscure location,” he says. “I made a quick search of his person, and his watch, rings and other personal items were in place, so he had not been robbed. But something about his presence in the particular place and the way he was lying, set alarm bells ringing in my mind. The spot is right by a building site and is not near any places of entertainment or public houses. I saw no logical reason for him being there. So, I decided to err on the side of caution, as it were, and send for the night wagon.”

  “Thank you. That is very well observed,” Stride says, nodding. “You may go now, constable. You have done your duty and done it well.”

  The young man’s face lights up with a smile. “I thank you, sir.” He rises and leaves the room.

  “Constable Williams is clearly a young man with an observant eye. We shall watch his progress with interest,” Stride remarks.

  Scarcely has the door closed upon Scotland Yard’s newest recruit, when a brief note is brought in from Robertson. His assistant has returned, having made discreet inquiries of various medical establishments. As term ended some time ago, there is no need for any corpses as there are no anatomy students to dissect them. Therefore, as far as he is concerned, Robertson has nothing further to contribute. There is no body to work upon. The note ends with a scrawled signature and a reference to someone called Asclepius, that Stride doesn’t understand.

  “Ah well, that is that,” Stride says. “I had hoped the man would turn up on some dissecting table and give us something to investigate.”

  “But we have a break in, and the theft of a dead body,” Cully says. “Surely that should be investigated?”

  Stride spreads his hands in a gesture of defeat, “Is there any point? The body has gone; we are none the wiser as to who he was and why he was taken, and we probably never will be.”

  Sadly, like many of his predictions, events are once again going to prove Detective Inspector Stride completely wrong.

  ****

  In the past ~ and by ‘past’ we mean the early part of the century, to travel from Bristol to London would have been a journey of over two days, jolting along rutted roads in a bone-shaking coach, stopping at wayside inns where the food might be execrable and the beds damp.

  But now there is the miracle of the railway, and a journey only previously undertaken in dire necessity can be completed in comfort and in a coach pulled by an engine, not by four horses. And so here they are, the Harbinger family: father, mother, ten-year-old twins Hanover and Harriet, baby Timothy, their luggage and a small parrot in a cage. Bags, baggage and beings, they take up a whole second-class carriage.

  The reason for their journey is simple. Aunt Euphemia Harbinger is dying. Finally. And when an aged family member is preparing their soul to cross that river into the unknown realm beyond, it is important that the family gathers round them. Especially when the aforementioned family member lives in a nice house in Chelsea and is the possessor of jewels, pictures and allegedly, a great deal of money.

  Then, it is even more important to be at their bedside, letting their fading gaze dwell upon the innocent faces of their beloved nephew and his children, so that any thoughts in the way of the bequeathing of worldly goods and chattels should be made as easy as possible for them.

  So here they are. The Great Western Railway locomotive chugs through parched fields and tinder-dry woodland. Occasionally it sweeps through small stations, where people stand in glazed immobility to watch it pass. The family sweat and fidget. The baby whimpers uncomfortably. The
parrot sulks under its green baize cover.

  “Now then,” the paterfamilias reminds them, “when we reach London, we will take a cab straight to our hotel, where we will change into our best clothes before going to see your great aunt.”

  “But Papa, shouldn’t we change into our worst clothes, as we want her to think we are very poor, so she gives us all her money?” asks Harriet, who has been described by various ex-governesses as little Miss Knowitall, and not in a favourable way.

  Her father frowns and pulls at his moustache. She is a puzzle, this girl. A conundrum, a riddle, an enigma. Everything about her is sharp: the cutting attitude of her eyes, the edge of her mouth, her blade-like face. Even her dark hair falls from her head like a million sharp spears. Far too clever and far too inclined to speak her mind. He shudders to think what she will be like when she grows up. If the previous couple of years are any indication, she will be on his hands for the rest of her life.

  “We will do exactly as I have instructed,” he says sternly. “Indeed, thinking about it, I believe you and Mama should remain at the hotel. After all, it is mainly for Hanover and his future that we are here. And, in time, Timothy of course. Rugby, Oxford and the Law do not come cheap.”

  His daughter shoots him a sharp look out of lidded grey eyes that are far too knowing for a person of her age. “Will Uncle Arthur and Aunt Wilhelmina be there?” she asks, innocence hanging like loops of toffee from her words.

  He winces. There is the nub of the problem. The reason for the hasty departure. The three siblings have always, throughout their lives, competed with each other for everything. And he, as the second son, has had to compete the hardest, has had the most to lose. An heir and a spare. Always. From the last sweet in the bag to the apportioning of their dead parents’ estate, he has been bested by his older brother at every turn. There is no measure for the sense of grievance Sherborne Harbinger has carried round all his adult life.