The Angel Read online

  ‘It was your first brush with Charles Dickens, who was very critical of the whole case and the public hanging. It made me wonder whether you were such good friends after all, but I digress. Another case you didn’t mention – because it was by no means a career-maker but which you were called in on – was the Bradford Poisonings. Dozens died from adulterated sweets and I believe that your investigations then gave you a lifelong interest in poison, making you something of an expert.’

  ‘Oh,’ Field looked down at his box, sorting out the best crusts for his favourite duck, who had left the water and had waddled over, quacking softly to herself. ‘I wouldn’t call myself an expert. An interested dabbler, that’s the furthest I would care to go. And that was twenty-one dead, by the way. Trust a Yankee amateur to get that wrong.’

  ‘Arsenic, I think it was, in the candy, wasn’t it?’

  Field nodded at the duck.

  ‘And it got you thinking. Organic irritants, good old standbys like deadly nightshade and moonflower.’

  ‘Angel’s trumpet, yes,’ Field almost purred. ‘That’s what did for Arthur Clinton. The smug, degenerate bastard. Well, it wouldn’t have been right, Mr Grand, would it, for him to walk away from his abominable crime? They used to stone people like him to death, you know, in the good old days.’

  ‘So, you became his jury, judge and executioner.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. And anyway, it got back at Stella, too, and that wasn’t a bad result.’

  ‘Stella?’ Grand raised his head sharply and the duck, startled, flapped back to the safety of the water. ‘Ernest Boulton.’

  Field laughed at the memory of it. ‘You know that deranged misfit was going to appear in Edwin Drood? Him! Her! Whatever! I couldn’t have that. I confronted Dickens in that bloody chalet of his and I told him straight.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’ Grand wanted to know.

  Field looked at the man. Had he no soul at all? ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever been in a book, have you?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe the odd despatch from General Sherman,’ Grand shrugged modestly.

  ‘I’m talking about a book, man. A literary creation. A work of genius. Dickens was happy to put me in his earlier works. So was Wilkie Collins. I read the first few chapters of Drood and couldn’t see myself at all. So I asked him outright. “When do I appear?” I said. “What’s the sobriquet?” and so on.’ He turned to look Grand up and down. ‘Do you use that word in your country? Sobriquet?’

  ‘I am comfortable with the word, yes,’ Grand said. He could scarcely believe he was sitting on a park bench with a murderer, feeding ducks and discussing vocabulary.

  ‘He said he didn’t intend to put me in at all. Me. Charlie Field! Doyen of Household Words. Inspector Bucket. Well, you can imagine, Mr Grand, I was outraged.’

  ‘So you killed him.’

  ‘I gave him one more chance to be fair. In that last interview, do you know what he told me? He told me he didn’t actually write any of his novels. All that was Gabriel Verdon. He said that a lesser talent like that might be happy to include me, but he was above such things.’

  ‘But you didn’t believe him?’

  ‘Of course not. The very idea! A weak excuse from the world’s greatest story teller, I thought. So, I just popped an extra large dose of angel’s trumpet in his homeopathic cocoa. It wouldn’t have taken long.’

  ‘And you didn’t go with him to Canton Kitty’s, did you?’

  ‘I certainly did!’ Field was insistent. ‘He didn’t do anything like that without me by his side!’

  ‘Lying’s kinda pointless now, Mr Field,’ Grand said. ‘I know you didn’t go to Bluegate Fields because you thought Canton Kitty was a Chinese lady and you didn’t mention Nell Ternan or the Americans.’

  ‘Charles and I were like that!’ Field shouted, two entwined fingers in the air.

  ‘Once, perhaps,’ Grand said quietly. ‘But not any more. And that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You weren’t famous any more and you couldn’t handle it. You invented the crimes you’d solved, pretended to be a chief inspector years after you’d hung up your truncheon. You barked at rookie cops on their beat and when Dickens turned you down, you saw red and reached for the angel’s trumpet.’

  ‘Yes, I was the angel, all right. Angel of the Lord. Angel in the marble. Take your pick. And too right I saw red. And I’d do it again. Wilkie Collins is next.’

  ‘What happened with Verdon?’ Grand wanted to know.

  ‘Ah, well, that was a mistake, I’ll grant you. I didn’t believe a word Dickens said about Verdon doing all the writing, but it stood to reason he might well finish Drood, so I went to see him. He did spend an awful lot of time down at Gads Hill at one time, so I wondered if there might not be something in it after all.’

  ‘He was down at Gads Hill because he was rather enamoured of the gardener’s wife. And the vicar’s daughter. And any woman within a five-mile radius, from what I understand.’

  Field clicked his tongue. ‘No better than he should be, then,’ he said. ‘I had felt a bit guilty about losing my temper like that, but not so much, now. But how did you know it was me? You amateurs – have you never heard how a murderer always uses the same method? A poisoner never bludgeons, a stabber never poisons. That’s the rule, that is.’

  ‘It was when you let slip your little mistake about the keys,’ Grand reminded him.

  But Field was in full flow now. ‘A locked-room mystery, eh? What a gem. And it would point suspicion at Chapman and Hall’s people. Verdon laughed at me. He actually laughed, Mr Grand. Can you believe it? He said Dickens was writing Drood and I should have gone to see him while he was still alive. Well, of course I had. And of course, I had to kill Verdon. Red mist, yes, you’re right. I just hit him and down he went. Skull cracked like an eggshell. I was the visiting angel again – avenging, this time.’

  ‘But we were a problem,’ Grand said, ‘Batchelor and me.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Grand, don’t flatter yourselves. But yes, I needed to know what you knew. George Sala called you in, didn’t he? Had to be him, big-nosed busybody. I pretended Catherine Dickens had engaged me – as she had, back when she discovered that bracelet that got her kicked out – and I told you that I too suspected foul play. And I followed you.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Not me personally. I’ve got a little private army of snoopers for that purpose. They told me your every move. You cost me a packet, you know, gadding off to Winchester and all over; train tickets don’t grow on trees. I did try to warn you off, to be fair to me. I got my old mate Doncha and his blarney boys to rough you up. Then I arrived, like your cavalry, to save the day. Except that you were too bloody stupid to take the hint, weren’t you?’

  ‘So, Sol’s for breakfast it had to be,’ Grand said.

  ‘That’s about right,’ Field said. ‘I knew that nonsense about Forster would bring you running. And then a bit of the angel’s brew.’

  ‘But you didn’t know about Verdon’s diary.’

  ‘No, I must admit that threw me. There I was, though, in a book again – “FC”. I couldn’t believe you and Batchelor missed it. Transposed letters indeed. Not Frederic Chapman but Charlie Field. Good old Charlie.’

  He threw the last of his bread to the ducks. ‘Well, what do you suppose is going to happen now?’

  ‘Now,’ Grand said, ‘I’m going to take you to Scotland Yard. There’s a real chief inspector waiting there for you.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, Mr Grand,’ Field smiled. ‘You see, I’ve got unfinished business. There’s Wilkie Collins, as I told you. Your friend Batchelor, apparently, he of the nine lives. But first of all, of course, there’s you.’

  Suddenly, there was a gun in Charlie Field’s fist and it was pointing at Matthew Grand’s forehead. ‘And don’t even think of reaching inside your coat, Mr Grand; a Tranter tops a Colt every time, I fancy. You know, you should be grateful. I can see the headlines now – “American found dead in
London Park”. Well, in our line of work, it’s not too surprising, is it? And all these Maryannes prowling places like this: who’s to say one of them didn’t take advantage of you – good-looking, well-set-up bloke as you are. Maybe George Sala will write your obituary.’

  ‘Mr Field?’ a voice called from the shrubbery. ‘Everything all right?’

  Grand saw his chance and swung out with his left arm, sending Field’s pistol flying. With his right, he smashed the man’s nose and dragged him off the bench. A uniformed constable was running towards him, truncheon in hand. He pulled up short as he found himself staring down the muzzle of Grand’s Colt.

  ‘Nice of you to call, Constable,’ he said. ‘And who says there’s never a cop around when you need one? Now, you be a nice bobby and put that shillelagh away.’ He crossed to pick up Field’s gun and stuffed it into his belt. ‘And instead, how about using that rattle of yours? I think we could all do with some assistance about now.’

  James Batchelor lay back on more cushions than one average-sized home should possess. Mrs Rackstraw had left no stone unturned when it came to making the invalid comfortable and a cooling bowl of calves’-foot broth stood on the nightstand alongside a glass of warming lemonade. Batchelor was at that stage of convalescence when he could take as much pampering as was thrown at him. Grand suspected, though, that his threshold was very near and Mrs Rackstraw was on the verge of being told where to put her nourishing broth. He made a mental note to make sure he was elsewhere when that happened.

  ‘You were very lucky, though, Matthew,’ he croaked. His throat was still sore from the vomiting, and from the stomach pump, which for some reason Dr Beard had prescribed three times daily for his week in hospital. ‘That policeman might not have come along for hours.’

  ‘Very true, James,’ Grand said with a smile. ‘But in fact it wasn’t luck at all. Mrs Rackstraw was all of a doodah when she found you were in hospital. I more or less had to nail her to the floor to stop her hurtling round there to nurse you herself. Apparently, the nurses there are no better than they should be.’

  ‘I didn’t notice,’ Batchelor said, with total accuracy.

  ‘They’re a bit starched, but …’ Grand brought himself back to the point. ‘So I told her that you weren’t to be troubled. That I had had enough difficulty getting in and that she stood no chance. That it was an open police investigation … well, I just told her any old story I could lay tongue to, I suppose. In the end, she seemed to just give in.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like her,’ Batchelor remarked.

  ‘And it isn’t, thank God,’ Grand laughed. ‘If she couldn’t get at you, she decided she had to look after me. So she followed me. All afternoon. That wasn’t hard, I guess. I spent a lot of the time in the library …’

  ‘You?’ Batchelor was impressed. ‘Which library?’

  ‘That one you use. The British Museum library. I had to look up some cases. Anyway, that’s not part of the story. Mrs Rackstraw tracked me there, waited outside – I gather she could have made a few pence if she had been willing to accede to a certain rather unchoosy gentleman’s requests, but she declined. Eventually, I came out and then she almost lost me. I went down into the conveniences and she didn’t know whether there was another exit. In fact, and don’t tell her this,’ Grand leaned closer and lowered his voice, ‘she waited on one of those glass panes in the ceiling, which of course is just pavement outside. If she thought I had looked up her skirt, even accidentally, she would be mortified.’

  Batchelor exploded with laughter, but clutched his midriff. ‘Oh, please don’t make me laugh. It hurts.’

  ‘Sorry. It gets a bit exciting from here on in. She tracked me to the park and sat on a bench a few along from where I met Field. It occurred to me we had no idea where he actually lived, but St James’s Park was a pretty safe bet. I did notice her, but didn’t recognize her, which I suppose doesn’t say much for my detective skills. She couldn’t hear what we were saying, but she began to get worried. She saw Field waving his arms about and could tell he had raised his voice, though she couldn’t actually make out what the words were. She heard just a few, though, and it was enough to have her beetling off to find a bobby.’

  ‘Matthew,’ Batchelor grated. ‘You’ve gone native at last.’

  Grand raised an interrogative eyebrow.

  ‘Bobby. Not cop. You’re coming along nicely.’

  ‘Well, whatever we call them, she found one. She managed to convince him that he needed to intervene. She was lucky; apparently, she reminded him of his old mum, so he didn’t run her in for being an itinerant mad person, what do you cusses call them – “a lunatic at large”? He came over as if everything was as natural as you like and there you are. Field in handcuffs before you could say … what is that bloke?’

  ‘Bloke? Robert Peel?’ Batchelor had dropped off briefly and thought they were still on the etymology of police nicknames.

  ‘Robinson. Jack Robinson.’

  Batchelor was confused, but let it go.

  There was a gentle tap on the door and Mrs Rackstraw peered around, what she fondly thought was a caring expression on her face. ‘There’s that peeler again,’ she said. ‘You know. The big one with …’

  There was an altercation in the hallway and her face abruptly disappeared, to be replaced by the not-insubstantial bulk of Dolly Williamson.

  ‘That peeler?’ He looked behind him and slammed the door with a foot. He was carrying a small sack and reached into it and brought out three bottles of ale. ‘Present from Dick Tanner,’ he said, handing them round. ‘He thought you might need building up. How are you, anyway?’ He sat on the foot of Batchelor’s bed and the sudden weight nearly catapulted him across the room.

  ‘I’ve felt better,’ Batchelor said, as loudly as he could manage. ‘I still feel a bit feeble sometimes and I can actually vomit if anyone mentions … well, snake-like water creatures in goo.’

  Williamson thought for a minute, then raised a finger. ‘Got it,’ he said. ‘I never cottoned to jellied eels much anyway. Sorry.’

  Batchelor had gone green and Grand was reaching for a bowl. Batchelor raised a hand and they waited but all was well.

  ‘I never had Charlie Field as a murderer,’ Williamson continued, when all danger was past. ‘He was a nuisance, of course. Used my name more than once, it turns out, when he wanted to question people who knew their rights. Couldn’t let go, that was his trouble. Not like old Dick,’ and he took a hefty swig from the bottle. ‘Not a bad tipple, this.’ He turned to Grand. ‘You’ve been to his place, yes?’

  Grand nodded. His head still ached sometimes, just thinking of it.

  ‘I thought I might pop down there for a few days. Bit of a holiday.’

  ‘You could take your wife,’ Batchelor suggested helpfully.

  ‘I could,’ Williamson ruminated. ‘Yes, I could do that.’ He looked at the bottle, held up to the light, then brightened. ‘But it will be a while yet. I don’t think poor old Charlie will be fit to plead. Mad as that wardrobe, if I tell the truth. But we’ll have to go through the motions. Frederic Chapman isn’t making my life any easier, for a start.’ He sighed. ‘I did try and blame you, Mr Batchelor, but he didn’t seem convinced.’

  ‘Blame me?’ Batchelor strained up on his pillows. ‘What for?’

  ‘Well, telling me FC instead of CF. That’s what set me off on the wrong direction.’

  Batchelor was speechless.

  Williamson clouted the man’s knee in a manner not recommended for invalids and Batchelor jackknifed on his pillows. ‘Just joking, Mr Batchelor,’ he said. ‘Just joking. We only questioned him for an hour or two and he hardly fell downstairs at all.’ He drained his bottle and set it down alongside the cold calves’-foot broth and the room-temperature lemonade. He took a deep breath and stood up. ‘I don’t often say this,’ he said, in a growl. ‘But thank you. We already suspect that poor old Charlie has done a load of murders we will never get him for. I don’t want to think
how many more he would have added to his list if you hadn’t caught him. So … thanks again.’ And with that, he spun round and wrenched open the door, dragging Mrs Rackstraw, in a crouching position putting her ear approximately level with the keyhole, into the room. ‘And, take my advice, get rid of this bloody woman!’

  And with that he was gone.

  Mrs Rackstraw drew herself up to her normal height and smoothed her apron with one hand and her hair with another. ‘Can I get you gentlemen anything?’ she said, in a voice so prim she was almost unrecognizable.

  Grand looked at her, grimly, then smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs R,’ he said. ‘We never take advice from Chief Inspector Williamson. If you happen to be heading to the kitchen, I could just murder some dripping on toast.’

  A closed ambulance drew in through the gates of Colney Hatch Asylum. Some of the more ambulant inmates watched as it passed through, the iron bars eased aside to let it in, then locked again behind it. One in particular, a bright-eyed woman in a pinny and neat dress, smiled to watch it. She liked new inmates. Sometimes, although not often enough, they might have a cat in their luggage. She started to make her way to the door.

  The woman helped out of the ambulance was quite the ugliest woman that Mrs Manciple, late of Alsatia, had seen, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a cat lover. Mrs Manciple had learned that it is hard to spot a cat person by outward appearance alone. She drew nearer and smiled encouragingly at the woman, who looked back at her with her tiny eyes, far too close together on the bridge of her tremendous nose. Her lips worked above her negligible chin but eventually she smiled back. She was held by one of the burly asylum nurses, but she had one arm free and beckoned Mrs Manciple nearer.

  ‘It’s Young Mr Frederic I worry about,’ she said, confidingly. ‘He has the wrong legs, you know.’ The nurse pulled on her arm and the woman went with her, uncomplainingly, into the dark maw of the hall. Mrs Manciple gave a shudder. That was a close escape; any cats in her luggage weren’t going to be very nice kitties, that was for sure.