Inspector Abberline and the Just King Page 7

  That was until the refectory door opened with a loud bang. Everyone fell silent.

  And Thomas stared at the fabulous creature in the doorway. The woman wore a gold band that encircled her head. Her dress appeared, at first glance, to be the typical evening wear of a woman of her class. Yet it was fabulously embroidered with birds of paradise; the pattern reminded Thomas of Arabian fabrics he’d seen. Everyone stared at her.

  ‘So sorry I’m late, your highness. My apologies, ladies and gentlemen.’ She swept across the room. ‘I broke the heel of my shoe and had to dash back to replace them. I beg of the inventors amongst you to invent a lady’s shoe with an indestructible heel. Ha! Newcomers!’

  Without a hint of shyness or hesitation this formidable and undeniably beautiful woman approached the table where Thomas sat. She waved away a footman who darted forward to help her with the chair. With a robust strength she pulled out the chair. Quickly, she sat down opposite Thomas, grinning as she did so.

  She reached for the bread, broke a chunk off and sniffed it. ‘Fresh, thank the Lord. I’ve already met Mr Thomas Lloyd.’ She held out her hand to Inspector Abberline. ‘I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you, sir.’

  Abberline politely stood, bowed and then shook her hand.

  ‘Oh, sir, don’t stand on ceremony.’ Energetically, she smeared butter onto the bread with a knife.

  ‘Inspector,’ began Thomas, ‘this is Miss Josephine Hamilton-West.’

  ‘Please do call me Jo.’

  ‘Very well.’ Abberline smiled.

  ‘Uh, I’ve put some butter on my sleeve.’ She raised her arm. Her pink tongue darted, licking off the blob of yellow.

  Professor Giddings sighed. ‘Jo is a veritable whirlwind in human form.’

  ‘Thank you, Prof.’ She munched on the bread.

  Giddings said, ‘Inspector Abberline and his assistant have come all the way from Scotland Yard in London to hunt for the killer of poor Benedict.’

  ‘I know. Thomas told me. Do you have any suspects, Inspector?’

  ‘We only arrived this afternoon,’ he said, diplomatically avoiding discussing details of the case.

  She said briskly, ‘You’ll want to interview everyone on the island?’

  ‘We shall see, miss.’

  ‘Ah, you are wise not to reveal your procedures, Inspector. The walls have ears.’

  ‘A whirlwind,’ grunted Professor Giddings. ‘Then she does blow away the cobwebs from this stuffy lot.’ His eyed the other diners.

  Footmen appeared with tureens. They efficiently went from table to table, ladling green broth into the bowls.

  ‘Gadzooks! Pea soup.’ Jo wore a broad smile. ‘I’m so hungry today. Have you finished your book, Professor?’

  ‘A slight delay, child. I regaled the inspector and Mr Lloyd with news of my own unfortunate incident. Namely, that the murderer discharged a rifle at my home. My wife and I were very nearly bloodily slaughtered.’ Giddings spoke in a slow, ponderous way. He could have been giving a speech to fellow professors at a university.

  Jo spooned soup into her mouth. After swallowing, she said, ‘Professor? How do you know that the person who killed Benedict was the same one who attacked your house?’

  ‘Logic demands that this is so. One of us is shot by an arrow. Another of us, specifically myself, is targeted by a rifle. We, on this island, are being hunted down one by one.’

  Thomas asked, ‘You didn’t see who fired the shots?’

  ‘Regrettably no.’

  ‘Probably a poacher from the mainland,’ declared Jo. ‘We’re not liked by the mainlanders. They accuse us of being ridiculous and frivolous. People over the water call this The Mud Pat. They refer to King Ludwig as King Mud.’

  Abberline digested the information. ‘So there is hostility from those that don’t live on the island?’

  ‘Yes indeed, Inspector. Usually they hurl insults. This time, as an act of mischief, one of them fired a couple of bullets into the professor’s window.’

  ‘Ah, there is more.’ Giddings held up a finger. ‘Before the bombardment of my house began … yes, my dear, nothing less than bombardment. Before the wicked bombardment I noticed that peculiar symbols had been daubed on my window panes. I believe the gunman had an accomplice who marked my home out for attack.’

  Thomas frowned. ‘You believe the symbols were a secret code to tell the sniper whose house should be attacked?’

  ‘I do, sir. Hear what I’m saying, gentlemen. You officers of the law are here just in time if you are to avert a massacre on this island. We are all at risk. We, any one of us, could be struck down by an assassin at any time.’

  Before anyone could comment, the man in the red sash at the top table rose to his feet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Pray silence. We have begun to feed our bodies. Now we shall feed our minds. Begin the readings. I call on Professor Giddings.’

  Jo winked at Thomas. That wink sent a shiver down his spine.

  Leaning forward, she whispered, ‘Between the courses there are readings. This happens every evening.’

  Professor Giddings stood up, stroked his beard, cleared his throat and spoke in the loud, clear voice of someone accustomed to speaking in a lecture hall. ‘Tonight, your majesty – ladies and gentlemen – I have chosen several passages from this book.’ He held up a brown volume. ‘Problems of the Future by Mr S. Laing. I shall read his essay that deals with the question of wherefrom the sun that heats our earth derives its fuel. As Mr Laing points out, if the sun was made from coal it would burn out in a mere six thousand years.’

  Thomas and Abberline exchanged glances as the reading commenced. Thomas realized that this meal would be a protracted one, if essays were served, as it were, between courses. For the next hour they heard a scholarly dissertation on the sun’s flames being fed by comets. After the guests had consumed roast chicken and potatoes, Giddings read an essay that predicted a Great War would, one day in the future, engulf Europe.

  The professor’s voice boomed: ‘The nations of Europe are increasing the size of their armies every year. As of this year, 1890, Russia has five million soldiers. Germany’s army stands at three and a half million. France three million. The list continues. The inevitable outcome of these grossly swollen armies is war.’

  Jo murmured to Thomas so only he could hear, ‘Someone has declared war on Faxfleet, haven’t they? The first shots have already been fired. And we’re in their gun-sights.’

  Chapter 8

  Breakfast arrived at the cottage known as Samarkand at just after seven o’clock. A boy, pushing a handcart, delivered a wooden box, containing a tureen of hot porridge, a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread. The bread was warm and smelt so delicious that Thomas’s stomach rumbled as he carried the box inside. He noted that the boy trundled his cart to neighbouring cottages and delivered the same kind of wooden box, which presumably contained identical breakfasts. The king of Faxfleet took care of his subjects. This porridge, milk and bread might not be the stuff of luxury. It was wholesome, though. Apparently, the meal came free, too, to the inhabitants of this little island in the muddy River Humber.

  Inspector Abberline had received a telegram that morning, stating that a local detective from the mainland would meet them at the scene of Benedict Feasby’s murder at nine.

  Over breakfast Abberline had a confession to make. ‘I don’t know where the killing took place, though I imagine our neighbours will give us directions.’

  Thomas felt as if he should make a confession of his own. The discussion with the stranger a few nights ago still troubled him somewhat. The man in the carriage had explained he and his colleagues had ambitious plans for Great Britain. They wished to introduce reforms that would lead to a better educated and more prosperous nation. After that, the stranger had handed him the gold pin, which Thomas had brought with him. The Order of the Golden Pin. Thomas had given that name, half jokingly, to the secretive group of what he supposed were individuals from the upper echelons of society. Surel
y, Thomas should reveal what he knew to the man who sat eating porridge in front of him. Thomas very nearly spoke out there and then, telling Abberline everything. However, Thomas had promised that he would not reveal details of the conversation he’d had with the stranger in the carriage.

  ‘Lost in thought, Thomas?’ Abberline pushed the empty bowl aside.

  ‘Oh, sorry. I was miles away.’

  ‘Many thousands of miles, I daresay. As far away as Ceylon?’

  Thomas smiled. ‘Emma is never far from my thoughts.’

  ‘Your fiancée will come home soon? Should I start considering matrimonial presents?’ The man’s eyes twinkled with good humour.

  ‘I wish I could send you a wedding invitation. The problem is I have no idea when the wedding will take place. Next year, I hope. Though I fear it might be the year after.’

  ‘No word, then, when Miss Bright will be returning to England?’

  ‘Emma’s still so busy with her work at the tea plantation. She and her father have cultivated plants that appear to be resistant to disease.’

  ‘Which will be extremely valuable to plantation owners.’

  ‘Absolutely. However, Emma and her father must monitor their tea plants for at least five years before they can be sure that they’re immune to blight.’

  ‘Five years?’

  ‘Emma’s letter shocked me when I read that experimentation on those damned plants would take so long. However, Emma tells me she won’t stay in Ceylon for the full five years. Her father has an apprentice who will take over Emma’s duties when she returns. Though she cannot say with any certainty when she will come back to me.’

  ‘I hope it will be soon, Thomas, I really do.’

  Thomas felt an air of gloom creep over him – a familiar enough sensation, and a deeply unpleasant one. All too quickly his spirits would fall when Emma’s absence from his life occupied his thoughts.

  Thomas stood up. ‘I’ll clear away the breakfast pots. We meet the detective at nine, don’t we?’

  ‘And, as I mentioned, we’ll need to find our way to the murder scene. Ah, where shall we put this bread? It would be a shame to let it dry out. I’ve not tasted bread as delicious as this in a long time. London bakers add china clay to make their bread so white. Knowing I’m eating what amounts to be dirt dug from a quarry tends to blunt my appetite.’

  A search of the pantry yielded a ceramic container. Both men decided this would be just the thing to store the loaf. With the bread safely harboured, they pulled on their coats, donned their hats, and set out into the breezy spring day.

  The cottage that King Ludwig had allocated to Inspector Abberline and Thomas for the duration of the investigation formed part of a sequence of a dozen or so cottages. They passed Professor Giddings’ home. This would be the one whose windows had been shot out a few days ago. The glass must have been replaced for there was no sign of damage. The white-bearded man couldn’t be seen. Thomas heard a scholarly voice, however.

  From inside the cottage came the sound of Giddings reading aloud in deep, rich tones: ‘But, after all, Constantinople remains the chief difficulty. Unless some arrangement can be made respecting it, it must remain a constant source of antagonism between Russia and Austria …’ The voice faded as the pair moved away from the cottage. Thomas saw that William Feasby stood in the garden of his dwelling. A large monkey sat on a chair on the lawn. Feasby groomed the animal with a brush. The monkey’s ears had been replaced with the outstretched wings of a bat. Its face had been freakishly moulded to resemble that of a human being. In fact, Thomas thought the monkey resembled (possibly libellously) the present Archbishop of Canterbury. The monkey had been expertly preserved after death. It sat resting its chin on its hand as if deep in thought. A sign fixed to the chair read: THIS IS LORD ECHO – HE APES THE PHILOSOPHY OF OTHERS.

  Thomas murmured to Abberline so Feasby wouldn’t hear: ‘Another of the grotesque Feasby exhibits.’

  Abberline nodded. ‘I daresay they’ll give children nightmares.’

  Presently, Thomas and Abberline reached a man dressed in workman’s clothes; he used a scythe to cut long grass at the side of the path. Abberline spoke to him, asking if he knew whereabouts on the island Benedict Feasby had been killed. The gardener gave directions, pointing along the path. Abberline thanked the man and they continued walking. Soon they left the cottages behind. Thomas judged that apart from the royal palace the little cottages clumped here and there among the trees were the only buildings on the island. There were no roads, only dirt tracks and pathways.

  Abberline’s own thoughts must have been running on a similar track to Thomas’s. ‘A funny little place, this, isn’t it?’

  ‘It strikes me that this kingdom is nothing more than a trivial plaything of the ruling classes.’

  ‘Yet the kingdom has existed for a century.’

  ‘I suspect it exists because English monarchs saw it as a joke kingdom – one that exists within their own kingdom – and for reasons that escape me regard it as amusing.’

  ‘If we view this “country” with a forgiving eye we can say at least it provides a place for inventors, philosophers and free thinkers to work.’

  ‘True.’

  Abberline raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t think worthwhile work is done here?’

  ‘I’m not saying that. What strikes me as peculiar is that the king invited scientists and academics here to work on their projects, and they are given free accommodation and wages, yet every year they have to convince the king that they are making progress. If they fail to persuade him they are, they are simply thrown off the island.’

  ‘And there is the business of the cash prize awarded every year, along with the trophy.’

  ‘Which must foster competition among the other academy members.’

  Abberline gave a wry smile. ‘There is nothing like competing with acquaintances for an award to bring out the worst in people.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I’ll give you an example. When I was a young constable I was called to a vicious fight at a village hall. The local people had held what was supposedly a friendly contest to decide who grew the best rhubarb. Judges were appointed. A day was chosen for the competition; gardeners took their rhubarb to the village hall to be judged. All went well until the winner was announced. Immediately there was uproar. There were accusations of favouritism; allegations of cheating, sabotage, and all kinds of skulduggery. Neighbours and friends who’d got on well with each other for years shouted insults at one another, punches were thrown, judges were pelted with rhubarb. When I arrived the place resembled a battlefield.’

  ‘All because of a rhubarb contest?’

  ‘Such a turn of events sounds comical. After all, why should a man become so angry because he’s told that his neighbour’s rhubarb is better than his? And why should it infuriate him when that neighbour, who he liked just an hour ago, is awarded a little scroll tied up with ribbon?’

  ‘Human nature. The quality of the rhubarb would reflect the man’s status in society.’

  ‘Exactly. Contestants didn’t feel as if it was their plants being judged as superior or inferior to those of their neighbours. They sensed, deep down, that they themselves were being judged. That’s what aroused such violent emotion. Old pecking orders were upset.’ Abberline paused where two paths crossed. ‘If something as humble as rhubarb can start fistfights, then what happens here when the lifework of ambitious individuals is judged? What is the reaction on this island when King Ludwig awards that prize of ten thousand pounds? How does the man in Cottage A feel when the man in Cottage B struts home in a cocksure way with a bag of gold coins in his hand?’

  ‘Then you think there is intense rivalry here?’

  ‘That wouldn’t surprise me at all. Every time I eat rhubarb pie I remember the carnage in that village hall. What does surprise me, Thomas, is that blood hasn’t been spilt before over the king’s competition.’

  ‘So, Benedict Feasby might have been kille
d by a rival?’

  ‘I wouldn’t rule it out. Now … it pains me, a detective, to admit this. I think we’re lost.’

  The breeze blew harder; leaves rustled, swished, fluttered. The entire island appeared to be sighing.

  Abberline checked his pocket watch. ‘Three minutes to nine. It won’t look well if a Scotland Yard man is late meeting the local police. They’ll think we’ve turned up late to deliberately insult them.’

  They continued walking. Almost immediately a horseman appeared at the next bend in the path in front of them. Thomas blinked. No – correction – make that horsewoman. The rider wore her striking leather kilt again.

  ‘Whoa, Napoleon.’ She reined the horse to a stop. ‘Good morning, sirs.’ She beamed. ‘Lovely morning for a stroll.’

  Abberline raised his hat. ‘Good morning, miss.’

  ‘Do please remember to call me Jo.’

  Thomas said, ‘We’re looking for where Mr Feasby was killed.’

  ‘Oh, you’re almost there, dear Thomas.’

  Abberline spoke pleasantly. ‘Would you direct us there, Jo? We’re meeting a detective from the mainland.’

  ‘I’ll show you. There’s space to walk alongside me. Don’t linger behind Napoleon, he’s prone to kick.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Abberline said.

  She urged the horse to continue walking. ‘I hope you find your suspect. It’s disconcerting to share Faxfleet with a murderer.’

  ‘If he hasn’t fled,’ Thomas pointed out.

  ‘He? Why can’t the killer be a woman?’ Jo glanced down at Thomas. ‘Women are capable of murder, too. Isn’t that right, Inspector?’

  ‘That is true,’ Abberline said.

  Thomas shook his head. ‘Feasby was shot out of a tree by an arrow. A woman wouldn’t have the strength to draw back the bowstring and fire an arrow with such penetrative force that it could kill a man at that height in a tree.’

  ‘Really, Thomas?’

  With that, she drew an archer’s longbow from the opposite side of the horse. Thomas hadn’t noticed the bow until that moment. She took an arrow from a quiver, and in one swift moment drew the arrow back until the bow was almost bent double, then she released the string. The arrow cut through the air at a tremendous speed. After fifty yards it slammed into a tree trunk where it embedded its point deep in the wood.