Philip Gooden - The Durham Deception

The man might have been about to say more but they were interrupted by the sight of the beat constable at the eastern end of the bridge. He was standing under the gaslight, clearly visible and presumably a deterrent to any nefarious activity in the area.

‘But not now,’ said the man. ‘Meet me tomorrow morning and I shall tell you more.’

‘Where?’

‘Here. At ten.’

He spun on his heel and loped across to the western side of the bridge. He passed under the pool of light from the gas lantern on that side and, for an instant, Flask thought of a predatory beast; there was something so silent and purposeful in his movement. Still, there could be no harm in meeting him again, could there?

Something had fluttered to the ground as the other man walked away. Flask picked it up. It felt like a handkerchief. He held it to his nose and detected the faintest trace of a woman’s scent.

As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Eustace Flask came to light the next day. A band of workers were using saws and axes to cut up a fallen tree on the eastern bank of the river where it doubled back on the far side of the cathedral. Their overseer was alerted by the cries of a woman. With a couple of his companions, he followed the direction of the sounds. The three ran a couple of hundred yards or so along the bank and then up the wooded slope to a small clearing.

There lay the body of a man, face up. He had died violently and blood was welling from a deep wound on his neck. But, more shocking and surprising than this sight, was the presence of a woman standing close to the body. When she saw the men enter the clearing, her cries ceased and she began to shake. The woodman made to go towards her but one of his companions held him back. He said nothing but nodded towards the woman’s hands, which she was holding out stiffly in front of her. They were bloody.

The overseer despatched the man to get help while he and the other worker kept a wary watch over the woman. After a time she seemed to realize the oddness of her posture. She let her hands drop to her sides. She made no move to run away but neither did the men come any closer. After a time — which seemed a very long time — there was the sound of whistles and police rattles and a constable came red-faced and panting into the clearing. Within moments others arrived, including a superintendent. Two of them approached the woman warily as if closing in on a wild horse.

‘I think you had better come with us, Miss,’ said the superintendent.

‘It’s Mrs,’ said the woman. Her voice was high and unsteady.

‘You had still better to accompany us,’ said the officer. He spoke quite gently. As he and a constable led the woman away out of the clearing, the others clustered about the body which would very soon be identified as that of Mr Eustace Flask.

The workmen had not been the only people in the vicinity of Flask’s body. There were various other individuals on this eastern portion of the bank of the River Wear who had noted him (when alive), and responded in their various ways.

There was Septimus Sheridan, for example. He was not toiling away in the cathedral library this morning. Rather, he had been so wearied by dear Julia’s harping on the subject of Eustace Flask that he decided to get some fresh air before burying himself in his ever-open books. He loved Miss Howlett with an undeclared love but even he could take only so much of her agitation over the wretched medium who had disappeared the previous evening at the Assembly Rooms. Good riddance to him! But from Julia there was a stream of questions and queries. What should they do about poor Mr Flask? Should they go to the police, for instance?

Septimus Sheridan noticed that the nice young couple felt the same way. Helen had become almost impatient with her aunt while her lawyer husband had quit the breakfast table as soon as possible to do some work. Eventually Septimus could stand it no longer. He left the house in South Bailey and rather than go the few hundred yards to the cathedral precincts he walked several times that distance, crossing the Elvet Bridge and turning south towards Church Street.

As he sometimes did when he felt weary or dispirited he went to St Oswald’s Church which lay on a wooded bluff overlooking the river. It was not the church where Septimus had served as a curate during his time in Durham many years before but he liked St Oswald’s for its extreme antiquity and its slightly forlorn air. He did not always go inside the church but contented himself with wandering off the flagstone paths and into the quiet of the graveyard. This was an overgrown place especially towards its western, river-facing fringe and Sheridan felt the long grass brush his trousers as he ducked under tree boughs and skirted the graves which poked lopsidedly through the soil. There was a ragged line of palings marking the church boundary and an unlocked gate on to a steep path which led to the riverside walk.

Septimus paused here and breathed deeply. The smells and noises of the town were drowned by the sound of birdsong and the scent of blossom. Dominating the tree-line on the far bank was the great eastern tower of the cathedral but from this aspect it was softened and framed by foliage and Septimus imagined that the scene could not have changed very greatly in almost a thousand years.

All those centuries ago an individual like Eustace Flask, with his cheap tricks and his claims to be in touch with the dead, would have been regarded as a witch. A warlock. A heretic. Flask would have been tried, convicted and summarily burnt at the stake. Septimus was not a violent man. He knew that he lived in a kinder, more enlightened age and he was thankful for it. But there was something to be said for those ancient forms of justice.

Septimus attempted to push such thoughts and imaginings out of his head. He distracted himself by listening to the birds. But the place was not so peaceful after all. From the wooded slope below came a crashing sound as of some animal forcing its way through the undergrowth. Septimus thought it must be a deer but a flash of bright, artificial colour — someone’s jacket perhaps — showed that it was a person. The colour immediately stirred an unwelcome recollection in Septimus Sheridan and he waited to see the route taken by the intruder in the woods. After a time curiosity got the better of him and he pushed open the gate in the dilapidated fence and started to tread carefully on the downhill path.

Any observer in St Oswald’s churchyard about a quarter of an hour later would have seen a rather stout man making his way at quite a lick through the long grass. More than once the man stumbled over a low-lying grave before he reached the flagged path which led to Church Street. An observer would also have heard a woman’s screams coming from the river area and rising above the birdsong. If the stout man was aware of them he did not stop, let alone turn back and investigate. Instead he walked as rapidly as decorum and his aching lungs would allow back in the direction of Elvet Bridge.

Another wanderer in the area was Ambrose Barker. He had been following Flask and Kitty for over a day now. He had attended the performance at the Assembly Rooms the previous evening and had been greatly cheered when Flask had been shut up inside that cabinet and made to disappear. Pity it was all a trick. Sure enough Flask had turned up again, like a bad penny. Ambrose was aware of this because he had been on the point of returning to the house in Old Elvet earlier that morning to have it out with Kitty once and for all. But as he was about to turn into the street he saw Flask coming out of the door. Ambrose turned away and waited until the figure in the bright green frock-coat had passed. Ambrose changed his mind about seeing Kitty that instant. His feelings, of resentment and anger, were directed once more towards the guv’nor. If he had disappeared once, surely he might be made to disappear again?