Philip Gooden - The Durham Deception

Ambrose Barker revelled in his moment of power. He carefully formed the next sentence in his mind. He ignored the fact that Kitty Partout wasn’t Flask’s niece — of course she wasn’t his niece, Ambrose was making a witty gibe — and said, ‘You ought to have the law on you, uncle Eustace, the law, I say. You know why? An uncle doing it with his niece. ’S a clear case of incest.’

But Ambrose was not as clear-headed as he imagined. His voice was slurry with all the pints he’d swallowed that evening and he was stumbling over his words. He had difficulty with ‘niece’ which sounded more like ‘nice’ and he mangled ‘incest’ altogether so that what he wanted to say emerged as ‘a clear case of insects’.

And then Kitty made the mistake of laughing. It was more of a titter than an outright laugh. She took one hand from between her legs and clapped it over her mouth.

‘Oh Ambrose,’ she said. ‘A case of insects!’

All at once Ambrose’s sense of cool superiority drained away. How dare the bitch laugh at him! It was as if he had shifted back from being sober to being drunk again, drunk and raging, although he had really been drunk the whole time. He strode a couple of paces into the bedroom and swung the kerosene lamp at her head. Eustace scrabbled from the bed and cowered on the far side against the wall with his hands covering his head while Kitty screamed and rolled to the edge of the bed.

The glass case of the lamp shattered and within seconds the burning wick had set a pillowcase and top sheet on fire. Flask reacted by huddling further down against the wall while Ambrose glared, stupefied, at what he had done. It was only Kitty’s quick response which saved them. There was a china jug and bowl on a side table, used by Flask for his morning ablutions and (luckily) unemptied. Kitty jumped from the bed, seized the jug and bowl from the table, and threw the contents over the flickering flames. Then she smothered the burning linen with a blanket, which she beat down with her hands.

The bedroom was filled with a horrible stench — of kerosene and singed bedclothes and burnt feathers — and the air was already thick with smoke. But Kitty’s quickness had doused the fire. At a cost, though. She held up her hands which were bleeding in several places from the glass shards of the shattered lantern.

Ambrose Barker was finally roused from his stupor. He saw Kitty Partout’s bloody hands, he saw Eustace Flask rising shakily up from his huddled stance. He was still angry, very angry indeed, but he realized that now was not the right moment to exact his revenge. Instead he shook his fist at the pair — although it’s not certain that either of them noticed the gesture — and stalked from the room and down the stairs. Only when he’d slammed the front door to the house and was standing in the street did it occur to him that he had not the faintest idea where to go or what to do next. But that wasn’t quite true. He did have an idea. It came to him from nowhere. He’d show her, he’d show them.

Meanwhile, upstairs in the lovers’ chamber, Eustace Flask had recovered a little of his composure. He did his best to remove the glass splinters from Kitty’s palms and fingers. He created makeshift bandages for her out of torn-up bits of bed-sheet. He tutted and cooed and tried to still his trembling hands. Despite the shock and her injuries, Kitty was the calmer of the two. She was simultaneously tearful and calm. Blinking her eyes, she watched as Eustace fumbled to wrap the linen strips about her hands.

Men were very foolish, she concluded.

It was an outing to the theatre. Not only the Ansells but Julia Howlett and Septimus Sheridan were going to see the redoubtable magician and his Hindoo troupe. Tom and Helen had been invited to visit Major Marmont in his dressing room at the theatre before the performance. He was curious to meet Helen, since he had known her father.

The Ansells walked to the Assembly Rooms which were not far from Aunt Julia’s house in the South Bailey. A dozen yards behind them came Miss Howlett and Mr Sheridan, her arm twined companionably through his. From a distance they had the appearance of an elderly married couple and Helen, looking back, wondered whether she’d been too hasty in dismissing the idea of marriage, even this late.

But Helen had other and more pressing things on her mind. She asked Tom if he remembered the name of the policeman who had attended the seance at Tullis Street.

‘It was Seldon. Why do you ask?’

‘And his wife’s name was Elizabeth?’

‘Perhaps. Yes, I think he called her Lizzie. But you said ‘was called’, Helen. What’s happened? What do you know?’

‘I thought so all the time but I was hoping my memory was playing tricks. A Mr and Mrs Seldon, Arthur and Elizabeth, were killed by gas poisoning in Norwood several days ago. He was a policeman. I would not have known of it except that there was an article about the safety of gas supplies in The Durham Advertiser-’

‘Which you just happened to be reading.’

‘You know me, Tom, I am a gannet for any printed matter my eye happens to fall on. What leaped out was the reference to the death of the Seldons, even if the writer mentioned it only to show the risks of piped gas and because it was a recent accident, I suppose.’

‘An accident, there you are.’

‘But it is a strange coincidence, isn’t it, that it should happen so soon after that man Smight threw himself off Waterloo Bridge.’

‘A coincidence but no more. What could be the connection?’

‘I don’t know, Tom. If I were more imaginative I’d say that Mr Smight had laid a curse on the Seldons from beyond the grave.’

‘Then it’s surprising he has more power now he’s dead than he ever did when he was alive. He cut a pretty feeble figure while he was threatened with being taken to court.’

‘Oh, I am well aware it is a ridiculous idea but, still, it has made me uneasy.’

Tom did his best to reassure Helen in the few minutes it took them to reach the theatre although what she said made him a little uncomfortable. When they arrived, they were directed to a poky room somewhere in the innards of the building. Sebastian Marmont was scrutinizing himself in a mirror, then applying dabs of extra ‘slap’ to darken his already ruddy complexion. He was wearing the trousers and waistcoat of his white tropical three-piece. A solar topi sat on the table beside him. He smiled to see Tom and Helen reflected in the glass. He stood up and raised Helen’s gloved hand to his lips.

‘Enchante, madame.’

‘I am pleased to meet you, Major Marmont,’ said Helen, sounding genuinely pleased, then looking round, she added, ‘This is a veritable Aladdin’s cave.’

It was the right thing to say. The room was jumbled with costumes and incongruous bits of equipment from a wicker basket to what looked like the trunk of a palm tree. Tom reached out an experimental finger. It felt like papier-mache.

The door to the dressing room suddenly burst open and three lads tumbled into the room. They had not realized that Marmont had visitors. One of them started to say, ‘Dad-’ and got no further. They were wearing turbans and their faces were neither pale nor dark but in between.

‘Boys!’ said the Major. ‘Manners! Let me introduce you to Mr and Mrs Ansell. Alfred, Arthur and Albert.’

The boys lined up as Sebastian Marmont pointed them out in rapid succession.

‘These are my sons, my Hindoos. They assist me in the performance in a variety of guises. The smallest one there, Albert, even dresses up as an ape — as if he wasn’t enough of a monkey already! You only have twenty minutes, you three. Go and get ready now.’