The Inquiry Agent Read online

  Fleming drove nervously as if he did not get out in London traffic very often. He was quite an old man, tall and stoop-shouldered, probably the same age as Mr Soames.

  We left the muddy streets of London behind us and were out in open country into a quiet so intense it was shocking after the roar of the city. It was pleasant to leave the bustle of the Great Wen and be out in the clean fresh air, to see grass and trees and flowers, and strange also to think that such things existed in such close proximity to the metropolis

  Eventually we pulled up outside one very large house. It was old, three storeys high with gables and many narrow windows. A long driveway led up to it and it had its own well on its own grounds with its own trees. I confess I thought of my own small apartment and felt a surge of envy. Mr Soames deputised Fleming to look after me. He said that if I needed anything from him, I had only to let him know. Fleming would show me everything.

  I waited until after Fleming had put the carriage in the coach house and let the manservant lead away the horses, and then I got him to show me where the break-in had occurred. He was a pleasant old man with a slow way of talking and he seemed a little in awe of me once he knew that I had been a Bow Street Runner. He took me to the doorway that the robbers had used to gain entrance.

  It was no Oliver Twist job that was for certain; no boys slipped in through a small window. It was as Soames had said. You could see the marks on the door frame where the robbers had used the crowbar. The door had been repaired now and the locks replaced but the marks were still there.

  I walked around the house looking at the grass verge and checking if there were footprints. There were some such as men might have made if they'd been trying to look in through the shuttered windows. Perhaps the tracks had been made by the robbers, perhaps by the local constabulary during their investigation or perhaps by someone else. There was no way of telling and close inspection revealed that no one had dropped anything that might give me a clue.

  “Did you notice anything unusual the night of the robbery?” I asked Fleming.

  “No, sir.” He paused for a moment considering. “I heard a strange banging at the door just after midnight and I thought about getting up and going to investigate but by the time I did the men were inside and they were armed.”

  “I understand that you have a gun. So Mr Soames tells me.”

  “I do, sir. But if truth be told my hands were shaking too much for me to load it. And when I heard the men coming I hid it under the blankets of my bed. I didn't want them to see it and shoot me, sir.”

  He looked quite ashamed as he said this. He was an old man quite unused to violence and the men who had broken in were desperate rogues who would most likely not have hesitated to shoot him down in an instant. I told him that and he looked for a moment as if he wanted to cry.

  “It's very kind of you to say so, sir. I'd like to think better of myself but I don't. When the danger came I was found wanting.”

  “Have you been with Mr Soames long?”

  “Nearly 40 years, sir. He was just starting out in the German trade and I was but a young lad then. He's the best and kindest master a man could ever ask for. And it makes me very angry to think what those men did. They should all be hung, sir, and I hope you catch them and string them up.”

  “I probably won’t do the hanging myself, Mr Fleming.”

  “I would do it for you, sir. By God, I would.”

  I didn't think it wise to tell him that Mr Soames didn't want the men captured. But I felt a small portion of his anger. The robbers had come here and caused him to doubt his courage and loyalty at a time of life when he should have had some peace of mind. Of course, there was always the possibility that Fleming had been in league with them but listening to the man and studying the expression on his face I did not think it very likely.

  “Can you tell me something about the other servants?” He stopped for a moment and rubbed his lip with a long forefinger. I could see that he was thinking that it was an impertinent request. Servants who have lived together for a long time tend to feel strong bonds of loyalty to each other.

  “There's nothing to worry about,” I said. “If they're not guilty of anything, nothing will happen to them.”

  “They're not guilty of anything. I will take my oath on that. They all feel about the master and the young mistress the way I do. Of course, they've not been with them for as long as I have but the feeling’s the same.”

  “None of them would be in league with thieves,” I said.

  “Of course not, sir.” He was quite emphatic in his denial that any of the other servants might be somehow involved in the robbery.

  “Can you give me their names?”

  “Well, there's Mr Bullock-- he is the general servant, directly under me. And there's his wife, the cook, Mrs Bullock. And then there's the daughter, Jane. She's a sort of maid of all work.”

  “And the groom? The one who took the horses? The burly fellow with the whiskers.”

  “That was Mr Bullock, sir. He does a lot of the general work about the house. There’s not many servants here for a house this size.”

  “Why is that, Mr Fleming?”

  “Because there is only the Master and Miss Amanda, sir, and they do not need many people to look after them.”

  It looked like the robbers had chosen their spot well; an isolated house with a few elderly servants. It had the hallmarks of a put-up job planned by someone with inside information.

  “I'd be very grateful if you could take me inside and introduce me.”

  “Of course, sir. Of course.”

  We went into the kitchen where Mrs Bullock was at work over the stove. She was a large, red-faced woman with big hands and a loud voice. Her expression was cheerful enough although anger came into her manner when we began to talk about the robbery.

  “They were brutes, sir, brutes. They waved their pistols about in our faces and showed no fear at all that they might go off by accident. They manhandled us all, me and John, sir, into the cellar and tied us up, and we'd most likely still be there today if John hadn't managed to wriggle his way free and go off and give the alarm. John’s my husband, sir.”

  “Do you remember anything about the men? Did anything stand out about them?”

  “Only their brazen cheek, sir. They were very rough, sir. And they had pistols.”

  “That's the one thing that seems certain,” I said.

  “And it is as certain as I'm standing here, sir.”

  She turned to Fleming and asked, “Has the gentleman eaten?”

  Fleming turned and looked at me. I nodded. It's a little thing but it's true; sometimes you don't want a person to be doing you any favours while you're questioning them. It might have made me intimate with them but I wanted to keep some distance between us. Over the years you develop a sense about these things, and my instinct was to keep the matter formal. I was not their friend or their guest; I was a Bow Street Runner there to get at the truth of events, at least as far as they were concerned.

  I asked her if she'd noticed anything unusual in the past few days, the same question as I put to everybody else.

  “Nobody,” she said. “Nothing out of the ordinary until the night it happened.”

  I asked her if her daughter was about but Jane had gone on an errand and might not be back for some time.

  I repeated the process of questioning with her husband and the only additional information I elicited was the fact that his wife had been very upset by the break-in and that at least the robbers hadn't perpetrated in any outrages on the womenfolk, and that was a mercy.

  He seemed like a decent man, quiet where his wife was loud, but devoted and loyal both to his family and his master. I got from him the same sense as I had from the others; that the well-ordered routine of their lives had been thrown into turmoil by the events. Something had been broken in that house, and you sensed it would take a long time to mend, if it ever did.

  Fleming led me upstairs and into the sitting-r
oom where Miss Mayhew waited. She sat under the window in one of those small bench like nooks that are built right into the wall of the bay. She had a book open in her lap. I'm not sure why but I got the impression that she was not really reading it, but was just waiting for me to show up. An old clock ticked very loudly on the mantelpiece.

  Fleming announced me and Miss Mayhew looked up. She was a beautiful young woman, not quite what I'd been expecting. Her hair was long and black and although there was a paleness and a nervousness about her which at the time I put down to the effects of the robbery on her nerves, her face had an intensity that was striking. Her cheekbones were high and her lips wide and thin. Her eyes were huge and her stare disconcerting in its directness.

  She smiled slightly at me and said, “So you are the inquiry agent my uncle hired to investigate the robbery.”

  “Jack Brodie, Miss. At your service.”

  “Have you investigated a lot of robberies, Mr Brodie?”

  “A number over the years.”

  “And have you caught many robbers?”

  “A tolerable few.”

  “And how will you catch these ones?” she asked.

  “I will make inquiries.” She laughed and her laughter had a slightly hysterical edge.

  “Will it be that simple?”

  “There will be nothing simple about it, Miss. I will doubtless have to ask questions of people who would rather not answer them.”

  “It all sounds rather exciting.”

  “That would be one way of describing it.”

  “Do you think you'll catch our robbers?”

  “It's too early to say, Miss. I would like to think that I will. Now with your permission, I would like to ask you some questions.”

  “Ask away, Mr Brodie.”

  “Please, tell me what you can about the night of the robbery, Miss.”

  “I was down here quite late reading to my uncle, one of Mr Dickens novels. Oliver Twist appropriately enough. I remember that we'd reached quite an exciting part, the place where Oliver is kidnapped and taken back to Fagin's gang, and my uncle said that was quite enough excitement for one night and begged me to put the book down while he was still capable of retiring and getting some sleep. That must have been about 11. We retired shortly after that and I can remember lying awake wondering what was going to happen to poor Oliver. I was just starting to drift off when I heard a noise downstairs, and fearful shouting and banging and I thought perhaps the house was on fire. I got up and got dressed and just at that moment my door burst open and there was a man there with a knife. I'm afraid I screamed as he pushed his way into my bed chamber.”

  “A knife, Miss? Not a gun?”

  “It was most definitely a knife, Mr Brodie. I saw light glinting on the blade. It is not something I am likely to forget.”

  She stopped and she seemed to be expecting me to say something. The clock ticked, loudly. “That must have been terrifying.”

  “It was. I'm surprised I did not faint. But I didn't.”

  “Did you notice anything about the man with a knife?”

  “He was big and burly and his accent was rather common.”

  “Common?”

  “He did not sound like a gentleman. By the way Mr Brodie, where do you come from?”

  “Do you mean he sounded like me, Miss?”

  “No. It's just I can't quite place your accent.”

  “I come from Scotland originally, just outside Dumfries, where Robert Burns died. I came to London when I was still quite a young man but I don't sound like a Cockney yet.”

  “Thank you, Mr Brodie. You're a long way from home.”

  “London is my home, Miss, and has been for quite a long time. Is there anything else you can tell me about the man with the blade?”

  “Dumfries? Wasn't Mr Carlyle born somewhere near there?”

  It was only afterwards that it occurred to me that she might have felt patronised by my mentioning where Burns had died and that the question was meant to put me in my place. At the time I took it at face value.

  “Thomas Carlyle, Miss, the essayist? I believe he was. The village of Ecclefechan, I think. Now about the night of the robbery...”

  “Yes, I'm sorry, Mr Brodie, I've been very distracted since that other night.” She sounded more annoyed than distracted, perhaps by the fact that I knew who Carlyle was.

  “It's quite all right, Miss. I understand completely.”

  “I'm afraid I can't remember many of the details after that. They tied me to a chair there and placed a gag in my mouth and left me there. It was only afterwards that I learned that they'd threatened to do terrible things to me unless my uncle showed them where he kept his money. I believe I might have gone quite mad if I'd known at the time.”

  She seemed upset now, reliving that terrible night. We sat in silence for a while and she dabbed at her eyes with a bright white handkerchief and the clock ticked away, loud as a drum. Once she'd settled down I returned to my questioning.

  “Have you any idea how long they were in the house?”

  “I'm afraid I don’t know, Mr Brodie. I did not hear them leave.”

  “Thank you, Miss. I think that will be all for the moment.”

  “I wish I could be of more help, Mr Brodie. I wish I could help you to catch those men.”

  “You already have, Miss Mayhew, and I thank you for it.”

  “If I can remember anything else I will let you know.”

  “Thank you.”

  A question came to my mind. Given the terrible events of two nights passed, I could not understand how calm Mr Soames was about them. I would have thought that above all he would have wanted these robbers caught. But he'd seemed more concerned with recovering his money and his papers.

  Jane Bullock, the maid of all work, had still not returned and there were some things I wanted to do. Fleming showed me into the presence of Mr Soames. He sat in a large downstairs chamber that had been made into a sort of reading room. There was a comfortable armchair, a large table and a few cabinets of books. On the table were a blotter, a jar of ink and a box holding a collection of pens. Soames sat at the desk writing something in a large journal. He looked up as I was shown into his presence and smiled affably in greeting.

  “I trust all goes well, Mr Brodie. I trust you're finding out what you came for. My people have been helpful?”

  “Very helpful, sir. I was hoping to talk to Jane Bullock but she's not returned from her errands yet and there's some other matters I have to attend to before I return to the city. Also I was hoping you could help me with a few more things, sir.”

  “It will be my pleasure, Mr Brodie.”

  “Could you give me the name of the contractor who worked on your roof and tell me where I could find him? And I would like your permission to return tomorrow to ask Jane Bullock some questions.”

  “Certainly, I'll write down the address of Mr Carstairs and you may return anytime you like to continue your investigations.”

  He scribbled the name on a piece of paper then used a ruler to tear off the part he had written on and kept the rest after he'd handed the name to me.

  “I would be grateful if Jane Bullock was not sent on any errands tomorrow afternoon, sir. I would like to talk to her then.”

  “I’ll make sure she receives suitable instructions, Mr Brodie.”

  On the way out I asked Fleming for directions to Mr Carstairs’ premises. The builder had his workshop on my way back into London and I decided to stop off on my way. It was an hour's walk but I did not mind for the day was fine and it was nice to be out of the stink of the London air. That's one of those things that you never seem to realise until you get the opportunity to experience it.

  Carstairs was a big bluff and hearty man. He sat in his counting house going over as accounts and was only too pleased to talk to me when I explained who I was and what I was doing.

  He told me that two of the labourers who had worked on Soames's roof had been casuals, cousins of one of th
e regular men, looking for a few days’ work which he had given them. They had since passed on, making their way to the city. Their names were Pat Murphy and Mick Brendan. One of them had a walleye but that was about the only distinguishing feature he could tell me of.

  Carstairs' labourers backed up their master's story right down to the part about Mick Brendan being one of their cousins and gave me the name of a rooming house in St Giles where I could probably find him. I thanked them and made my way back out into the street.

  The sky was darkening by now and I still had a fair way to go to get back home. I set out on my way wondering about some of the things connected with the break-in at Brighton House. I had a funny feeling about the place; that everything was not quite as straightforward as it seemed, and that it was going to be difficult to get to the bottom of it.

  The lamplighter was out by the time I’d got back to Bow Street, clicking his stave into the base of the cast iron pillars to make the gas flow, and then with a conjurer’s flourish, lighting the lamps at the tips. I paused to watch for I still found it as oddly thrilling as I had when I first came to the city. Of course, there had been far fewer gaslights then.

  The fog was closing in and diffused the yellowish glow of the gaslight by its spectral presence. Wearily I made my way back to my premises to find that Sarah was waiting.

  She stood in the shadows near a lamp post in the street outside my office, carrying the tray of violets that was her excuse to approach men in the street, for by profession she was a flower girl of the more disreputable sort.

  Respectable people hurried by, one or two of the men giving her a glance full of appraisal and longing. Even in the uncertain light I could understand why-- she was a very beautiful girl and she was available if you had the money.

  She was clean and presentable. Her hair was long and blonde and escaped in a golden cascade from beneath her bonnet. Her lips were full. Her eyes large and blue and still held a shadow of the innocence of the country girl newly arrived in the big city. She would have passed for twenty although she was younger. She told me once that once she had been a respectable shop-girl in some West Country town. It might even have been true. I had never really found out what had made her run away from her small town life. The story changed every time I talked to her, depending on her mood and the current fashion in the penny gaffs.