Michael White - The Art of Murder

‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am,’ he said, looking directly at the Super. ‘Just had a call. We’ve got another one.’

To Mrs Sonia Thomson

14 October 1888

June was a very busy month. I was obliged to organise my family affairs in Hemel Hempstead, bury my father, and help the authorities with their investigation into the fire at Fellwick Manor. I was aware of a few suspicious voices being raised, but nobody came out with any clear accusations and there was no evidence to incriminate Yours Truly. Naturally, I played the role of grieving son beautifully. My father had few friends and we had no remaining family connections. His unmarried elder brother had died of cholera some ten years ago, and Mother, like myself, had been an only child. I inherited everything.

After an appropriate length of time I was able to escape to Oxford where I had still to attend to the matter of satisfying my professors that I was worthy of a good degree. You may wonder why on earth this would matter to me; but, you see, I’m one of those people who, once something has been started, likes to finish it in style. This I succeeded in doing, and in June, I was ready to make my farewells to the university town that had opened up so many new opportunities for me.

But, for some reason, I could not quite bring myself to board the train. I lingered for two days. Most of the students had left and the place began to feel unnaturally quiet. Before dawn on the third morning, as I lay in bed, I realised what it was that was holding me back. I packed a bag with some bread and a bottle of ale, and headed south past Christ Church and over Folly Bridge.

The sun had been up for an hour by the time I reached Boars Hill and the day was already warming up. After leaving the track at the edge of the city and passing into the fields close to Boars Hill, I neither saw nor heard another soul. The only sound was the buzzing of insects. Clancy Hall was surrounded by a fence on three sides and a wall on the other. The driveway was gated but I found a way over the wall to the east of the gate, close to a copse of trees, and traipsed across a patch of knee-high grass that led me to the edge of the carefully manicured gardens close to the house.

I sensed the place was deserted long before I reached the double front doors and tried the bell. The windows were shuttered; the driveway empty and freshly raked. I tried the bell a few more times without really knowing why and then took a few paces back to the far edge of the driveway, to stare at the blank walls and shutters.

I was crossing the lawn to leave when I saw a solitary figure some fifty yards away: a gardener working on one of the flowerbeds. He was wearing steel-capped boots and had thrust his spade into a heap of soil stacked high in a wheelbarrow. Arching his spine, he pushed back his cap, wiped his weathered face with a scrap of cloth and turned to watch my approach.

‘Good day,’ I said.

He gave me a suspicious look, his thick grey eyebrows knitting together. ‘Sir,’ he said, touching the front of his cap.

‘I’m a friend of the owner,’ I said, and nodded back towards the house. ‘My name is Mr Sandler.’

‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’

‘I was surprised to see it all boarded up.’

‘Well, perhaps you haven’t been around for a bit, sir,’ the gardener said mildly. ‘Been this way for a while now.’

I was about to reply, but checked myself. I wiped my own sweaty brow with the sleeve of my jacket. ‘Any idea where Mr Oglebee has gone?’ I asked, staring the gardener directly in the eye.

‘Mr Oglebee?’

‘Yes, man,’ I snapped. ‘Mr Oglebee.’

The gardener shook his head slowly and I could feel the anger building up inside me. He clicked his tongue. ‘Don’t know about a Mr Oglebee, sir. Clancy Hall is owned by Lord and Lady Broadbent. Or at least it was. They died a few years back. Their son Charles is master of the estate now. But he lives in South Africa. Hasn’t been back for, oh … at least three years.’

I looked into the old man’s eyes, trying to see if there was any trace of artifice, but there was none. I simply thanked him, turned and walked back to Oxford.

Later, following the porters out through the gates of Exeter College and on to the Turl, I could not snap out of the puzzled reverie I had found myself in since leaving Clancy Hall. There was no one in Oxford to whom I could put the conundrum, and something inside told me that even if I were to mention what I had discovered, I would receive no satisfactory form of response. It was a little while later, as I sat alone in the train carriage allowing myself to be lulled to sleep, that I began to see the funny side of it and to accept what an amusing divertimente the whole thing had been. Oglebee, I realised, was even more of an enigma than I had suspected.

I had been to London on several occasions prior to that, always with my father. They had been solemn affairs; silent train journeys with me obediently tagging along. All those trips were to the more salubrious parts of the capital, on visits to lawyers and meetings with Father’s religious brethren. My plans now were very different.

The train pulled into Paddington Station with its usual cacophony and billows of steam. I followed the porter through a concourse milling with early-evening travellers. We stopped at Left Luggage and I gave the man a good tip. He doffed his cap and strode off with his trolley to find another customer. In the gentlemen’s conveniences I changed, swapping my tailored suit for a pair of rough workmen’s trousers, an old collarless shirt, a flat cap and steel-tipped boots. Folding my smart clothes into one of my cases, I removed a ripped canvas bag and stuffed it with a few essentials. I also removed a black leather bag which contained my paints and materials as well as a collection of knives and a newly sharpened saw. After putting my two cases into storage, I headed out through the main doors on to the busy street.

It was hot and sticky still, the air heavy and cloying. A storm was brewing. I went to hail a cab and found myself discombobulated. The cab slowed, but then the driver took one look at me and whipped on his horse. I had to smile at the efficacy of my own disguise. Turning, I walked a few yards back along the road and found another hansom waiting for passengers from the station. When I approached the cab driver and told him where I wanted to go, he gave me a puzzled look and was about to pull away without a reply when I told him I would pay double in advance.

‘Show us it then, matey boy,’ he said.

I pulled out half a crown and handed it to him. ‘Righty-ho, sir,’ he said. ‘Jump in.’ He flicked his whip and we were away.

I sat back as the cab wove a course through the busy streets, and simply soaked up the atmosphere of this incomparable place. London … the greatest city in the world by far. This was a city the Emperors of Rome would have envied. I know, dear lady, that you have yourself been to London many times. Your husband told me this. But I also know that you have led a rather cloistered life in the Berkshire countryside, so you must indulge me in my recollections of my sense of rapture upon finding myself here a free agent at last. Here I was, newly graduated from Oxford, a young man with very clear ideas of what he was about to do. No wonder I was excited.

The storm broke as the cab bounced over the cobblestones of Tottenham Court Road. From inside my cab, I could see pedestrians scatter for cover as thunder hammered overhead and lightning ripped open the sky. I heard the driver seated on his box behind me yelling at the horse and then his whip crack above the beast’s rump.

The journey seemed interminable. Even my enthusiasm for the place began to wear thin. I had arranged my accommodation already, contacting a landlord through an advertisement in the Oxford Times . I wanted something in the heart of Whitechapel and had no qualms about the sordid condition of most of the dwelling places there. In fact, the filthier it was, the better I would consider it to be. I was quite confident that I could look after myself. As we approached the address of the lodgings, I asked the cab driver to pull over to the side of Whitechapel Road. I did not want the neighbours to see me arriving in a hansom. I jumped down, pulling my bag over my shoulder, and headed over the uneven, rubbish-strewn cobbles with my hat tugged low over my face and my head down against the still driving rain. The weather was on my side, I thought.