Maxim Jakubowski - The Best British Mysteries III

‘If I can be of any assistance in this investigation, do let me know.’

Bucket’s finger twitched thoughtfully.

‘I certainly will, sir,’ he replied jovially. ‘I certainly will.’

‘Why did you say that?’ I demanded of my friend when we were away from the house. ‘We certainly don’t want to have much to do with the police, do we?’

‘My dear Engels, I have a strange fascination with this case and feel sure I could apply my own skills and methods in investigating it.’

‘But Marx, what possible qualifications do you have in the field of criminology?’

‘I have spent my life trying to solve the greatest crime committed by and against humanity. Surely I can bring some of this intelligence to bear on what, in comparison, is a mere misdemeanour.’

He was, of course, referring to his definitive work on the political economy. His great case, if you like. But I feared that this was yet another excuse for him to be diverted from his historic task. Decades had passed since its outset and yet he had only completed the first part of Capital. Alas, I have grown used to so many excuses for the non-completion of the work. I had no idea why his great mind might be stimulated in pursuing this particular distraction, what was to become known as ‘The Case of the Ten Lords a-Leaping’, but I suggested to him that it was perhaps the supposed supernatural aspect of it that provoked him so.

‘You may be somewhat affronted by the use of phantasmagoria,’ I chided him. ‘But wasn’t it you yourself that described communism as a spectre haunting Europe?’

‘Now, now,’ my friend reproached me. ‘Let us stick to the facts. But first let us retire into this tavern here.’

‘Isn’t it a bit early?’

‘Yes, yes,’ he whispered furtively. ‘But I fear we are being followed.’

My colleague and I had long been sensitive to the attention of police spies and government agents. Once safely inside the pub there was a brief appraisal as to who our pursuer might be in the pay of. My friend was of the opinion that his movements were far too subtle to be that of a Prussian.

‘You mean that he might be from Scotland?’ I demanded.

‘Perhaps,’ muttered Marx, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

‘Then that is all the more reason for staying away from this unpleasant business. We must not unnecessarily provoke the attentions of any government institution.’

But Marx was having none of it. It has been my experience that despite his rather chaotic approach to his work, once my friend becomes obsessed with something it is invariably impossible to dissuade him from a complete involvement in it.

‘Now,’ he went on. ‘The manservant Parsons, he seems under suspicion, does he not?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And did you notice anything strange about the butler?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘In his appearance. Would you say he was English?’

I remember the swarthy looks of Parsons, a peculiar accent.

‘No,’ I replied.

‘Then what?’

‘Er, Jewish?’ I ventured tentatively, knowing of my friend’s sensitivities.

‘I thought so at first, yes. But did you notice the strange tie-pin that he wore?’

‘I can’t say that I did, no.’

‘A curious device. I’ve seen the emblem before. A black M embossed on a red background. I’ve seen it struck on medallions and tokens commemorating Garibaldi’s “Thousand”.’

‘You mean Parsons is an Italian?’

‘Yes. And I suggest that Parsons is not his real name. Here is my theory: he was a Red Shirt with Garibaldi in the triumphant success in Sicily. After the defeat at Aspromonte, he goes into exile, and like so many of the “Thousand” finds himself an émigré in London. There he enters into the service of Lord Beckworth and adopts the name Parsons.’

‘But how can any of this point to a motive in the death of the young lord?’

‘I have no idea. But, as you know, it has always been my contention that it is not the consciousness of men that determines their being, but, on the contrary, their social being that determines their consciousness. I intend to discover more about this Parsons, or whatever his real name is. Once we have a clearer idea of his social interactions, then we might be able to deduce his intentions.’

He stood up from the table.

‘Where are you going? I asked.

‘There is a back way from this pub. I can slip out unnoticed if you can keep our spy occupied for a while. Clerkenwell, I believe, is where most of Garibaldi’s Italians have settled. I intend to make some inquiries there. Meet me at my place tomorrow at noon.’

Marx was already entertaining a visitor when I called upon him the next day, a young lady in mourning weeds. She was so shrouded in black that her face, revealed as it was beneath a veiled bonnet, seemed a half-mask of white. I do not think that I have ever seen such a deadly paleness in a woman’s face. Her eyes were speckled grey like flint, her lips a blood-crimson pout. I could not help but frown when I looked from her to my friend. Marx gave a little shrug.

‘This is Miss Elizabeth Cardew,’ he explained. ‘She was the fiancée of the young Lord Beckworth.’

‘I have been informed,’ she said to me, ‘that yourself and your esteemed colleague here were among the last people to see my beloved alive.’

‘The butler Parsons must have been the last,’ I reasoned.

‘That damnable fellow!’ she exclaimed.

My friend and I were shocked at such an outburst and Miss Cardew’s pallor was all at once infused by a rosy flush that bloomed in her cheeks. She quickly sought to regain her composure.

‘I must apologise, gentlemen,’ she explained. ‘I’m sorry, but the enmity that I feel towards the man known as Parsons is so strong that I find it hard to moderate myself.’ She sighed. ‘I do believe that he had some kind of diabolical hold over my betrothed. He certainly is not the person he presents himself as.’

‘Indeed not,’ my colleague concurred. ‘The man employed by your husband-to-be as Gilbert Parsons was, in fact, one Gilberto Pasero, a Piedmontese fighter in Garibaldi’s “Thousand”, forced into exile in London. He worked for a while at the Telegraph Office in Cleveland Street, then after meeting with Lord Beckworth at a Radical meeting in Finsbury, was engaged in service as his gentleman’s gentleman.’

Something like fear flashed in the expressive eyes of Miss Cardew.

‘How did you know…?’ she began.

‘I have been conducting my own investigation. Now, you say that Parsons, or rather, Pasero, had some kind of hold over Lord Beckworth. What do you mean by that?’

‘We had just become engaged when he took up with this dubious manservant.’

‘When was this?’ I interjected.

‘Oh,’ she thought for a moment. ‘It was over two years ago.’

‘A long engagement?’ I suggested.

‘Yes,’ she sighed, mournfully. ‘It was the curse, you see. My betrothed was terrified of it, but even more fearful of passing it on. He could not countenance the continuation of his family’s bane. He had a horror that,’ she gave a little sob, ‘in consummating our love we might pass on something so wicked and damnable.’

She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes that were now filmy with tears.

‘He always sought to try to understand his fate,’ she went on. ‘This led him to unconventional ideas, radical ones even. The love that I offered him seemed no consolation to his desperate temperament. Instead he seemed ever more drawn to that awful butler of his. He was enthralled in some way and I am sure that Parsons, or whatever this creature is really called, was responsible for my fiancé’s death.’