Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

“Mrs. Grossmith,” Charlotte said icily. “So sorry to interrupt.”

“Forgive me, miss.” The housekeeper smoothed down her skirt and fumbled an awkward curtsey. “I thought you’d gone out, with your brother and the policeman.”

Charlotte ignored the question. “Why are you washing dishes? Surely that’s up to the hotel staff?”

“Mr. Moon is my responsibility. I like to look after him the best I can.”

Charlotte passed her a folded slip of paper. “Will you make sure my brother gets this?”

“You’re leaving us?” The housekeeper didn’t sound especially disappointed at the prospect. “Can’t you stay an hour or so? Mr. Moon will be back soon and I’m sure he’d like to say goodbye himself.”

“It’s best I go now.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Quite.”

“Can I ask you something?” Mrs. Grossmith paused uncertainly. “In all the years I have been in his employ, he has never once mentioned you. I don’t mean to pry but-”

“You want to know why?”

“Suppose I do.”

“My brother and I have an unusual relationship. If we spend too long together, things have a habit of happening around us. The kind of things one would prefer not to happen, if you understand me.”

“No, dear. Frankly, I don’t.”

“Believe me, it’s for the best we stay apart.” Charlotte turned toward the door. “Goodbye, Mrs. Grossmith. Mr. Barge.”

Arthur gave a gawky wave of farewell and Charlotte stalked from the room.

“Strange little girl, isn’t she?”

“Can’t say as I noticed,” Barge said. “I was looking at the other lady in the room. The one that has my heart.” He reached out to touch her but Grossmith brushed him firmly aside.

“Later,” she said, stowing Charlotte’s message discreetly in the sleeve of her pinafore. “There’s plenty more pots need scrubbing before bedtime.”

Mr. Honeyman was almost exactly as Moon remembered him — a stubborn, gray-skinned man, permanently harassed. He seemed rather bolder on this occasion, due perhaps to the absence of the gorgon who passed as his wife.

Moon and Merryweather had barely been ushered in before the man started to complain: “I believe I insisted on seeing an official investigator,” he barked, glaring at Moon.

Merryweather did his best to placate him. “I can vouch for his trustworthiness, sir. He’s helped me out on more occasions than I care to remember and I don’t mind admitting there’s a goodly number of villains behind bars today who’d still be out and fancy free if it weren’t for his assistance.”

“Is that so?” Honeyman snapped sarcastically. “I haven’t allowed you into my home, Inspector, so you can stand here and eulogize this amateur. Besides, my understanding is that since that deplorable incident in Clapham, Mr. Moon is no longer considered quite as infallible as he once was.”

“My apologies,” the inspector said gently and changed the subject. “I’ve no wish to hurry you, sir, but could you tell us a little more about the circumstances of your wife’s disappearance? Try to remember as much as you can. Anything might prove important. What may seem an insignificant detail to you, sir, could be a vital clue to the trained eye of a policeman.”

“I woke early in the morning,” the man said stiffly, “at around six, as is my habit. Often walk the grounds, you understand. Admire my fish. And she’d gone. It was as simple as that. Taken a suitcase with her and just upped stumps. None of the servants saw her go.”

“You think she chose to leave?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“The suitcase would seem to rule out abduction. Don’t you think so, Mr. Moon?”

The conjuror yawned, bored by the predictable plod of police procedure.

“Mr. Honeyman,” Merryweather persisted, “do you have any idea where your wife might have gone?”

“None. Her whole life was here. I’m worried she might have done something… unnecessary.”

“You’ll forgive me,” Moon said acerbically, “but when I last met your wife she hardly struck me as the kind of woman predisposed to self-harm. Neither did she appear noticeably bereaved. She behaved more as if she was profoundly relieved at being rid of some irritating encumbrance.”

Honeyman turned to the inspector. “This is intolerable. Am I expected to stand in my own home and allow myself to be insulted by this rank amateur?”

“Believe me,” Moon pressed on, “your wife was not in mourning.”

“Can you tell us, sir,” Merryweather said, his voice almost comical in its excessive deference, “had your wife been behaving strangely at all before she vanished? Had she done anything unusual or out of character?”

“She been particularly involved in her church work of late. She’s a great philanthropist, you see. Most devout.”

“Church?” Merryweather said. “Can you tell us the name of that church, sir?”

“More of a charity, I think, properly speaking. Somewhere in the city. Of course, I’m perfectly happy with our little parish church but then she was always far more serious about all that than me. She was quite besotted with this new lot. Lord knows why.”

“The name of the church, sir?”

Honeyman harrumphed. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you without looking it up.”

Merryweather favored the man with his best professional smile. “We’re happy to wait, sir.”

Muttering under his breath, Honeyman trudged from the room.

“Inspector?” Moon said suspiciously. “Do you know something I don’t?”

Merryweather was unable to hide his excitement. “It’s a rare day I’m ahead of you, Mr. Moon, but I fancy this time I might just have managed it.”

“Tell me,” Moon said sharply. “Now.”

“Patience.”

Before Moon could frame a sardonic reply, Honeyman returned, brandishing a sheaf of papers. “Just as I said. They’re a philanthropic organization. Missionaries, I think. Something of that sort.”

“Their name?” Merryweather asked again as he reached for his notebook.

“I have it here.” Honeyman flicked vaguely through his papers until he came across the information. “The Church of the Summer Kingdom.” He wrinkled his nose. “Ridiculous name. You think it could be significant?”

Merryweather scribbled furiously. “Yes, sir. I think it just might be.”

They left with a promise to keep him fully informed of their investigation and strolled outside to the grounds where the Somnambulist was loitering about by the fish pond, listening to a groundsman chatter incoherently on about tree surgery. He gave them a quizzical look.

“The inspector’s keeping something from me,” Moon explained sulkily.

“Wait till we’re in the coach. Then I’ll tell you everything.”

They were halfway back into the city before he finally told them the truth. “You remember Dunbar?” he began as the coach lurched with fearless rapidity in and out of the jostling ranks of traffic. “The Fly’s other victim?”

“Of course.”

“Seems his mother disappeared around about the same time as Mrs. Honeyman.”

Moon sounded almost disappointed. “I see.”

“Wait for it, Mr. Moon. Wait for it. This is the really interesting part.”

“Let me guess,” the detective interrupted swiftly. “She was also a member of this gang of philanthropists — the Church of the Summer Kingdom?”

Merryweather clapped his hands together in delight. “Precisely so.”

“Well, then. It seems at long last that we have a new lead in the murder of Cyril Honeyman.”

The Directorate.

Skimpole had never liked the name. He thought it was ostentatious, pompous and unnecessarily melodramatic. It originated from the founding of the agency in more theatrical times, days of blood and thunder. Since the death of the Queen, Skimpole had harbored hopes that the excesses of the past would not continue into the new century. He felt that a secret organization (if it were to have a name at all) ought to take pains to make itself sound as commonplace and as unworthy of notice as possible — certainly not revel in a title like “the Directorate,” which sounded as though it had been torn from the pages of popular fiction and seemed to him to reek of showmanship and cheap sensation. Dedlock, however, had always heartily approved of the name and, as it happened, considered himself a man who positively thrived upon showmanship and cheap sensation.