Jekyll & Hyde: Consulting Detectives E-Book

Tim Major

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 407

Beschreibung

Dr Jekyll and his monstrous alter-ego join forces with his ex-fiancée to solve a series of disappearances across Victorian London in this thrilling mystery, perfect for readers of Stuart Turton and James Lovegrove. When Muriel Carew attends a lavish society party, the last person she expects to bump into is her ex-fiancée Henry Jekyll, a man she's not seen for many years. When Jekyll turns out to be investigating a series of missing persons in London, Muriel is intrigued. But Jekyll is not working alone, and if Muriel wants to aid in the investigation, she must work with both Henry and his partner, the monstrous and uncouth Mr Hyde. As their search takes a dark turn and a missing persons case becomes a murder investigation, Muriel finds herself deep in a mystery involving a nefarious group exploring their own hidden alter-egos within the beating heart of London's high society. To solve the case and bring those responsible to justice, Muriel must find a way to place her trust in Mr Hyde, which might mean uncovering secrets about her own life she never dreamed of discovering.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Also Available from Tim Major and Titan Books

Title Page

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Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part 2

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Part 3

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Acknowledgements

About the Author

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Jekyll & Hyde: Consulting Detectives

Hardback edition ISBN: 9781803366418

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803366449

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: September 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Tim Major 2024

Tim Major asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For Sarah

PROLOGUE

Edward Hyde roared in pain.

Pain from his head, pushing from the inside, crushing from the outside. Pain in the dripping red blotch on the white post before him, in the confines of the cage which stopped him from fleeing into the darkness. Pain in his aching fingertips, in the whirl of bloody images in his mind.

Those were the worst.

He saw the young man again. His hands bound above his head, his feet swaying loosely. Dark blood running down his cheeks, dripping onto his sodden shirt and pooling on the floor. Edward saw himself kneeling in that pool and scooping the blood up to let it run between his fingers. He didn’t know whether any of it was real.

More images came in a flurry, and he threw up his arms to ward them off. A man with his front teeth punched out. A wailing child trampled in the street. A bar singer thrown onto a bed, her limbs splayed unnaturally in all directions. An old man with a neat puncture hole in the centre of his forehead, his mouth a wide, surprised O and his hands curled into claws grasping at the life that had already left his body.

Edward couldn’t breathe. The posts around the edge of his circular cage were constricting, pressing upon his lungs. A chill wind stung his skin, and yet there was no air.

There were people out there, too, in the shadows beyond the cage. They were coming closer.

He saw himself leaping up, bursting free from the cage, throwing aside anyone who stood in his way. But what he saw in his mind couldn’t be trusted. He dropped to the ground, whimpering in confusion.

A rising tide of blood washed at his feet. If he remained motionless, it would consume him. He rose and stalked around the edge of the circular platform, knowing there could be no escape.

Then he looked directly upwards. He told himself that what he saw was impossible, but how could he be certain?

It was that same young man who haunted him. Hands tied above his head, feet swaying, shirt sodden with dark blood. His face was streaked with ugly gashes and there were black blotches on his arms and neck.

Blood rained from the mutilated body onto the floor, onto Edward’s face, into his mouth.

His head hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt

He howled and charged the white post with his head lowered, aiming at the precise point that was already stained with his own blood.

CHAPTER 1

Muriel considered all society parties lethally dull, but this one was worse than most. It was just as well that she had something to occupy her mind – otherwise, the anecdotes about Mayfair restaurants, home redecoration and inane gossip relating to anybody not present at the Courtenay residence that evening might have reduced her to a heap on the luxurious carpet, begging to be freed.

As it was, she was focused and determined. She accepted glasses of champagne whenever they were offered, but found hiding places for them after a single sip. She moved effortlessly from group to group, hovering at the periphery of conversation. In the dining room, a collection of wives wearing gowns far more elaborate than Muriel’s remarked on the décor of the house in tones that conveyed admiration, envy and subtle disdain. Whiskered gentlemen populated the library, grunting at one another while inhaling from cigars, and when they did speak it was only the typical remarks about foreign policy and the Marquess of Salisbury’s principle of ‘splendid isolation’, a concept that at this moment struck Muriel as particularly attractive. In the crowded corridor she paused outside the servery, where one maid instructed another that they had “best not scrimp on the gin cocktails – they’re set on being three sheets to the wind tonight.” She made her way into the large garden, where guests gathered in smaller groups, most of them intent on one another rather than paying any attention to the nominal centrepiece of the event: a plinth in the centre of the lawn upon which was a large plaster representation of a grand public building.

She stood alone before the model for several minutes, studying the tall Greek columns before its entrance and the towers at each corner that were as ornate as pagodas. Even though the model was unpainted, it seemed somehow garish, as well as a monstrosity.

“Fine-looking place, wouldn’t you say?”

Muriel nodded doubtfully. Without looking up, she said, “The name needs a bit of work.”

“The name?” the man said. “Does it have a name?”

She gestured at the plaque positioned in front of the model, which read St Simeon’s: Liberating Children from the Grip of Poverty.

Now she turned to see the man she was addressing. He appeared to be in his mid-sixties, and dandruff speckled his pale suit. He wasn’t looking at the plaster model, but rather up at the ivy-laced rear of Simeon Courtenay’s grand townhouse. The glass doors behind the twin balconies of the first floor were protected with geometric-patterned iron trellises. It seemed that their host was conscious of the need for security.

“I was referring to the school,” she said.

The man glanced at the model. “Ah, yes. I suppose it is rather an affectation, old Simeon using his first name like that. But there wasn’t a St Courtenay, as far as I know.”

Muriel smiled. “Did you know that there were three saints named Simeon? All of them were stylites – they lived up on tall pillars, fasting and preaching to people below. Our host may like the idea of being held up above others, but he hardly seems the pious type.”

She told herself she shouldn’t flaunt her knowledge. It was hardly expected of a woman. Then again, neither were critical opinions.

“Still – he arranged for all this, didn’t he?” The man waved vaguely at the model. “If it wasn’t for him setting up the charity, there’d be no school. I mean, in good time…” He drifted off. “Personally, I think we ought to be very proud of ourselves. My name’s Ingram, by the way. Not an insubstantial investor to the scheme, actually. And you are…”

Muriel laughed. “I’m nobody.”

“Then who are you with?”

“Just myself.”

They both turned as one of Simeon Courtenay’s house staff called out, “Ladies, gentlemen, would you be so good as to gather around the model?” He began to harry the groups scattered around the lawn, and Muriel listened attentively, hoping to add names to her list of donors to the charity or, even better, her list of perpetrators of the fraud.

“Mr and Mrs Hines?” the valet said politely to one couple. The Hineses had donated £100 and Muriel’s background research suggested that they were entirely well-intentioned.

“Please move this way,” the valet continued, “and stand just… yes, just there. Now, Captain Wright-Moss, if you would be so good.”

Captain Wright-Moss was of more interest. Earlier at the party Muriel had heard this stiff-looking man remark about a sizeable donation, but she knew for a fact that he was close to bankruptcy. Perhaps he might lead her to information about the gifts from anonymous donors that had been entrusted to the foundation, which hadn’t appeared on any public reports but about which Muriel had heard murmurings during other social events. If only she could get her hands on the statements relating to the building costs…

“Ah, Mr Ingram, Miss Carew,” the valet said brightly as he approached Muriel and her companion, “you’re in just the right place already, thank you so much.”

Muriel winced at the use of her name.

As other guests shuffled into place around them, Mr Ingram whispered, “You are Miss Muriel Carew?”

“I am,” she replied reluctantly.

“My goodness. I saw your name on the list of donors and I was surprised enough to remark to my wife—”

“I had asked for my name to be omitted,” Muriel said, doing nothing to disguise her frustration. “It was only a modest donation.” She resisted the temptation to add: I wouldn’t waste good money on a scam like this. The amount had been carefully calculated as the minimum that would ensure she would be invited to the party.

Mr Ingram continued, “I said to my wife, look here, that’s General Sir Danvers’ daughter!”

The guests were being encouraged to squeeze closer together as the photographer set up his tripod. Muriel experienced sudden claustrophobia, despite the warm air and the bright blue sky above.

“You knew my father?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly. Then she feigned laughter. “He wasn’t a real general, you know. He had a military bearing and the title just seemed to cling to him, like a nickname.” Conversely, the title ‘Sir’ seemed a downgrading of his status as a hereditary peer in the House of Lords. His precise position in England’s hierarchy had always eluded her.

“Indeed I did. I’m Ingram, of Ingram’s land agents. I performed the purchase of St Stephen’s Vicarage personally.”

The house represented another confusion of titles: in the past, many had assumed Muriel’s father was a man of the cloth, on account of his choice of the old vicarage in Canonbury as home.

She managed a weak smile. “I still live there.”

“I’m so glad to know that you do… despite your position.”

Muriel didn’t reply. The ever-tightening huddle resulted in her neighbour on her other side pressing uncomfortably into her bare shoulder.

“You must have been so very young when your father was taken from us.”

Muriel replied hollowly, “I was nineteen.”

Involuntarily, she thought of a grinning face, an empty house, a sense of the world shifting on its axis. She had been entirely lost that night, even before she had learnt of her father’s death.

“That was a decade ago,” she said, trying to clear her thoughts. “The pain diminishes, or perhaps I should say it crystallises. Either way, it’s smaller and can be worked around.” She had hardly noticed she was speaking aloud. She shook herself and said, “Now, let’s smile for this photograph, otherwise we risk appearing despondent over the building of a new school, which wouldn’t do.”

The valet stepped back but continued gesturing to coax those at the edges of the group inwards. Finally, he signalled that no more could be done, and the photographer disappeared beneath the cloth hood of his camera and held up a tray containing magnesium flash powder. Muriel gasped at the ignition of the flash, which was far brighter than she had anticipated. One of her neighbour’s responses was even more pronounced, and she turned to see who had made the stifled cry of anguish.

She didn’t gasp a second time. She couldn’t. All the breath had left her body.

The man who had been standing directly behind her hadn’t noticed her, and now he staggered away from the group, a hand pressed firmly to his forehead.

It seemed that the past refused to let her be.

“I’m afraid I must leave you now, Mr Ingram,” Muriel said, patting the land agent’s arm absently. “I’ve just seen a ghost.”

CHAPTER 2

It couldn’t be him, and yet there he stood. When he saw Muriel striding towards him, his hand went to his mouth and his eyes glistened. His face appeared thinner, the skin taut around an unsmiling mouth, and his hair was thinning and streaked with grey.

“Henry!” Muriel said, her right hand outstretched in greeting. This was a technique she used often in awkward situations: she playacted at confidence, which gave her confidence.

He glanced at the doorway to the nearby morning room, then bowed his head and led Muriel to stand beneath the boughs of a tall birch tree.

“You’re… old,” he said in amazement.

Muriel snorted. “And you’re rude.”

“No, I… Apologies. I only meant that you’re very much an adult now. A woman. And, well, a rather fine-looking one.”

“Wasn’t I when you knew me?”

Henry’s stammering didn’t produce any comprehensible words.

It was only now that she noticed that he was clutching the top of a narrow cane, upon which he leant heavily. “Are you unwell, Henry? You’re pale.”

He touched his face lightly in several places, as though it was unfamiliar to him.

In the years since she had last seen him, Muriel had rehearsed what she might say if she encountered him again. Now, none of those preparations seemed of any use, and her calmness surprised her in a not unpleasant way.

“I’m very well, thank you,” he replied stiffly.

“I heard you make an odd sound when the photograph was taken.”

He waved a hand. “My eyes are rather sensitive. The flash disturbed my vision temporarily.” His eyes flicked to the doorway of the morning room.

“You seem distracted, Henry. Am I keeping you from speaking to somebody more interesting?”

A dozen or more people were crammed in the morning room, all orbiting Simeon Courtenay. His greying temples made him appear authoritative, yet his youthful, ruddy features suggested jolliness.

She sighed. “I suppose you’re hoping to conduct a conversation with our host. I take it that you’re a subscriber to his project?”

“Ah – no. I’m a friend of a friend.”

Muriel resisted the temptation to scoff. She had never known Henry to have friends.

“Then it’s a business matter?” she asked lightly.

“Yes.”

“Are you somehow involved in construction?”

“No.” Henry was still looking past her. When Simeon Courtenay moved from one cluster of guests to another, Henry’s body jerked involuntarily.

“Simeon Courtenay is a difficult man to pin down,” Muriel said.

Henry frowned and nodded.

She had once respected Henry, having assumed that men in the higher ranks of society made good decisions almost by default. She knew better now. Almost all of her informal investigations had concluded in revelations of an abuse of power by a man deemed respectable. For example, the textile factory owner who had mistreated one of his house staff, a young woman whose boat fare Muriel had paid in order for her to return home and avoid further beatings. Knowing that the factory owner’s violence would turn towards his remaining staff, she had been compelled to stage the young woman’s disappearance as a suicide, with the intimation that he would be held responsible. Or the lady friend whose father had proved an inveterate gambler. Her son had been forced to take out loans, the value of which had ballooned unreasonably with successive failures to repay, followed by threats of violence. Muriel had discovered that the moneylender had extorted many others in the same way. After months of failing to determine what leverage she might use against the lender, she mounted a letter-writing campaign among her network of influential friends. Each had intimated that they knew the moneylender’s darkest secret – then mentioned the matter of unacceptable extortion almost in passing – and the moneylender soon offered to rein in his greed. Muriel had never discovered what secret he was determined to hide, but was grimly satisfied that her assumption had been sound. All powerful men had secrets. Despite this triumph, the resolution was not a total success: her friend’s father soon returned to his gambling.

“Henry,” she said softly, “I hope that you won’t trust Simeon with your money or your reputation.”

Finally, Henry looked at her directly. “Why do you say that?”

His urgency suggested two possibilities: he was considering a donation, or his scepticism about Simeon Courtenay matched her own. Either way, Muriel decided that it was in her interests to speak candidly. “His project is a sham. Its value is far less than the sum of the donations to date. I doubt the school will ever be completed, and if it is, it will be far smaller than we have been told, aiding far fewer children.”

“Oh.” Henry’s eyes had glazed over again.

“The idea seems no surprise to you. What is your interest in him?”

In the morning room, Simeon Courtenay joined a group at a table. He gave a deep guffaw at some remark, gripping the shoulders of the two men nearest to him as if his mirth had incapacitated him temporarily. Both of them responded with wide-eyed expressions of gratitude. Muriel noted that Henry’s posture had slackened now that their host was no longer on the move.

“I’m sorry, Muriel,” he said. “My mind is elsewhere.”

“Wasn’t that always the case?” With a wan smile she added, “Of course, back then the distraction was your medical work.”

Henry snapped to alertness. “How long has it been since—”

“It’s been ten years.”

She looked at him in silence, daring him to be the one to refer to the fact that they had been engaged to be married. He didn’t speak.

Lightly, she said, “Where did you go, Henry, all those years ago?” She rarely allowed herself to think of the night she had last seen him: a grinning face, an empty house, a confusion of bodies. Stifling these images was another of her techniques of self-protection.

Henry hesitated, as if weighing up how much the truth might cost him. “I left the country.”

“I thought as much. But my question was about where you went, not what you left behind.” Then she laughed to take the sting from her remark.

Henry only gripped the handle of his cane tight in both hands.

“Then tell me this,” she said. “How long have you been back in London?”

“A little under two years. I presumed that you would not want to be informed of my return. That it might be painful.”

“Emotions tend to diminish over time,” she lied, “and it has been a long time. I find that instead I’m left with questions.”

Henry was staring up at the balconies and trellised windows of the Courtenay house. Then his gaze lowered, and he reached out to take Muriel’s left hand.

“You have no wedding band,” he said. There was pity in his tone.

“That’s because I’m not married.”

“Yes. Muriel, I’m very sorry to hear that.”

She laughed. “It’s not something I’m at all sorry about, myself.”

“But I ruined your fortunes. Or rather, I dashed your hopes. I—”

She squeezed his hand hard enough to make the thumb click. “Stop right there, Henry. You did nothing of the sort. I have chosen not to marry. And don’t forget the capacity in which I am a guest here. My father’s fortune alone would have been enough for me, but over the years I’ve made a series of investments that have proved most sensible, and I have only added to that starting amount. Among other things, that allows me to indulge in charitable donations – though on the whole I prefer those that are legitimate. This evening I’m indulging a hobby which has become rather an occupation: I am exposing hypocrisy. If that amounts to being ruined then I’d be interested to know what success looks like.”

Henry stared at her. Then, like a spreading fault in a rock struck with a pickaxe, a smile grew upon his face.

“I should have known that you would become such a woman,” he said.

“Because it validates your choosing of me?”

He shook his head vigorously. “You’re the same as you always were. Headstrong, and proud, and…” He trailed off, then thrust a hand into his waistcoat pocket, retrieving a handkerchief and dabbing at his eyes.

“Oh, Henry. I do wish I could say the same about you. What have you been doing since your return? Have you resumed your medical practice?”

“No. That profession was something else I left behind.”

“Then what are you now?”

He only gave a pained smile, as if her question was profound.

In some of her imagined encounters with Henry, Muriel had seen herself beating him with her fists, raging at him for abandoning her so abruptly, and on the very same evening that her father had succumbed to a heart attack. But now her chest only felt tight, and her stomach abruptly empty, and Henry’s doleful expression neutered all of her anger.

His eyes were darting again.

“Muriel… I’msorry—”

“Well, of course you are—”

“I mean I’m sorry that I must take my leave. It has been a pleasure to see you again.”

Abruptly, he clapped his hands upon both of her shoulders as if she were a man, and then he pushed her rather roughly to one side and hurried – limping slightly and favouring his right leg – towards the door of the morning room, leaving Muriel open-mouthed with her hands on her hips in indignation.

CHAPTER 3

Henry’s movements had the strange appearance of being at once indiscriminate and purposeful. His path through the crowded morning room weaved strangely, as though he were intent on greeting all of his fellow guests – if not for the fact that he didn’t stop to speak to any of them. The situation was as unambiguous as the diagrams of mathematical models that Muriel had studied in the books in her father’s library. Simeon Courtenay was wending his way through the throng of well-wishers who each raised their drink to him in turn, and Henry followed doggedly so that there were never more than half a dozen bodies between them. Yet his pursuit was clever; rather than follow like an arrow, he remained always to one side, at the edges of the room or hemmed between other people who barely acknowledged his presence. Though Henry walked with the assistance of a cane, he was shrewd at navigating the mass of bodies. He darted left and right, at one point bumping into a footman and making his tray of drinks tremble ominously, but then Henry flicked his cane expertly to correct the tray before he slipped past.

Muriel followed him. At first, she attempted to mimic Henry’s manner of movement, but found herself stopped again and again by men and women whose faces she recognised from other parties. Involuntarily, she matched a name to each person, and a corresponding level of complicity in the school construction fraud. She was forced to acknowledge each guest and murmur platitudes, but each time she smiled and slipped away as if to greet other pleasant company. At one point, when a gentlemen took hold of her forearm and exclaimed about the great luck of their meeting, she beamed and pointed over his shoulder, saying, “Ah yes, and have you also met—” and by the time he had turned around again, she had moved on.

In this manner, she and Henry passed into the corridor. Muriel could still make out Simeon Courtenay ahead, bowing to each guest he passed, his shoulders rising as he embraced a fellow or chuckled at a woman’s pleasantry. When he dipped left into the dining room, Henry didn’t follow him inside; instead, he ducked to the right and through the doorway of a cloakroom, which Muriel supposed afforded a line of sight into the dining room without the risk of entering and then being forced to retreat. She could certainly learn some things from Henry that would prove useful when gathering information related to her causes.

It was clear that Henry, like her, was investigating Simeon Courtenay – but why? Was it possible that he had already known about Simeon’s scheme before Muriel mentioned it, and was far ahead of her in bringing him to rights? Something fluttered in her chest: hope. Hope that Henry Jekyll was a good man.

Within a minute, Simeon emerged from the dining room, stepping backwards and gesturing to an occupant of the room with spread palms, chuckling indulgently. When he turned away, though, his face was abruptly expressionless. Muriel recoiled as his eyes found hers.

“Miss Carew, is it not?” he said, moving towards her.

She bowed her head meekly. “Thank you for inviting me to your house, Mr Courtenay. It has been a most delightful party.”

His smile and the light in his eyes would have seemed genuine, if Muriel had not witnessed how easily he was able to turn his good humour on and off. Over Simeon’s shoulder she saw movement in the doorway of the cloakroom, and her cheeks flooded with heat. She told herself again and again, Do not look at Henry’s hiding place.

“The expression of thanks ought to be mine,” Simeon said. “It is the donations from you and others that we are celebrating.”

“And the prospect of the new school,” Muriel added.

He chuckled. “Of course, of course.”

“When do you suppose construction might begin?”

His expression darkened momentarily. “There are certain matters that must be resolved before ground may be dug, certain hurdles that must be overcome. The timescale is to some degree out of my hands, but I assure you that I am applying all my influence to hasten it.”

She understood his meaning. If the school was never built, no blame could be levelled at him. Nobody would demand the return of their donation, as no doubt a claim would be made that the funds had been used in a project equally deserving.

They watched each other steadily. Muriel had the distinct impression that his silence was a challenge: would she ask more questions, or would she behave as the other guests behaved, simply displaying gratitude at being allowed to participate in the scheme? Charitable events such as this had a dual purpose, neither of which related to the stated cause itself. They allowed host and guests to congratulate themselves on their own goodness, and they permitted social contact that might lead to further, more selfish, opportunities.

Now was not the time for Muriel to make herself a nuisance to Simeon Courtenay. But she very much looked forward to doing so in due course.

“I am sure you have taken the matter firmly in hand,” she said, “and I am so very proud and humbled to have played my part. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I’ve seen… Yes! My dear, it is you!”

This exclamation was in response to the appearance of a shrivelled woman wearing a lace gown that seemed to swallow her small body. The woman peered up in confusion as Muriel took her arm and turned her around, then laughed gaily as though the woman had told a joke. When Muriel dared to look back, she saw that Simeon was climbing the grand staircase and that Henry had resumed his dogged pursuit.

She found herself willing Henry on. Simeon Courtenay is certainly bad, she thought, and Henry is against him. Therefore Henry is good. Childish logic, but a comforting idea all the same.

Henry climbed the stairs slowly. When he reached the halfway landing from which the staircase continued its ascent in the opposite direction, Muriel saw that his head was bowed and his lips pressed together in a tight line. The cane was no stage property; he was in real pain.

Muriel finally released the old woman who had provided a distraction, then looked around her. Most of the guests were deeper within the house, and all were restricted to its ground floor. She forced herself to wait as a maid pushed open the nearby door to the library, then closed it behind her. Immediately, Muriel lifted her long skirts and began to climb the staircase, experiencing an illicit thrill unfamiliar to her since she had played hide-and-seek as a child.

Henry had already disappeared by the time she reached the top of the stairs. She bent low to peek along the corridor, then scolded herself – could there be any more suspicious behaviour? The correct attitude was simply to stride wherever she wanted to go, then claim ignorance if she was caught prying.

She could see only one door, suggesting that on the other side of the passage was a single room that occupied the entirety of the first floor of the house – a drawing-room, perhaps, or a grand study. The bedrooms must be on the floor above, and the servants in the attic.

A large man in a dark suit stood directly before the door, his arms folded over his enormous chest, his mouth working constantly as though he was chewing on something. The window beyond him, at the front of the house, was interrupted by vertical iron bars. Through them Muriel could see a small bird flitting in the boughs of a tall silver birch, and horses and carriages waiting in the courtyard. To her surprise, she saw that one of the carriages had black, draped curtains that identified it as a hearse.

His implacable stare at the wall before him made it clear that the role of the burly man was to guard the room. But why?

It was possible that Henry had gained access to the guarded room, but Muriel judged it unlikely that he would be welcomed, given his earlier furtive manner. So, rather than approach the guard, she made her way along the corridor in the opposite direction, praying that she would not be noticed and giving silent thanks to the thick carpet that masked any sound from the heels of her boots.

As she approached the rear of the house, she heard a dull sound like the swaying of an iron lamppost in the wind.

The corridor opened to a small area that allowed access to a second staircase that led to the upper floor. Here, a balcony overlooked the rear garden. Its glass double doors were protected by the complex iron trellis Muriel had noticed earlier from below, its geometric pattern evoking the Alhambra Palace of Granada. From the twin patterns of light upon the carpet and from her recollection she knew that there was another balcony out of sight, at the foot of the staircase leading to the bedrooms.

She halted, thinking of a balcony in her own home, in the bedroom which had been hers throughout her childhood years but which she now rarely entered. She saw that space often in her dreams, and a grinning face looming upon her.

No, she mustn’t lose herself in the past. Shaking her head to dispel the image, she edged forward.

Henry Jekyll stood with his back to her at the foot of the stairs, before the open doors of the left most balcony. His cane was propped against the wall and his hands gripped the iron trellis, the presence of which would prevent anybody from actually standing upon the balcony itself. He rattled the trellis, producing that same tolling sound she had heard earlier.

He stopped. His head turned – not fully, but indicating that he was listening.

She only wanted to talk to him. If they had both come here to scrutinise the activities of Simeon Courtenay, then surely they might work together.

“What are you doing?” Muriel whispered.

Henry whirled around, brandishing his cane, his teeth bared.

The resemblance to the scenario from her dreams was shocking, despite this being Henry and not the other man. Muriel clamped her hand over her mouth, but not quickly enough to prevent herself from crying out.

Immediately, Henry darted to the left. At the same moment, Muriel heard heavy footsteps from behind her. She whirled around, half expecting to see the grinning face from her dreams, but instead she found herself face to face with the burly guard in the dark suit.

“Nobody up here,” he announced gruffly.

“Oh!” Muriel affected light-headedness, which had served her well in similar situations. “I’m so sorry. I must have lost my way. I’m looking for the Gerrards.”

“Nobody up here,” he said again, gesturing with a meaty hand at the central staircase that led downstairs.

There could be no question of passing him to reach the door he’d been guarding. Instead, Muriel backed away to the twin balconies. The glass doors of the one Henry had been examining were still open, but it was impossible for him to have left that way, given the iron trellis.

The guard gestured again at the wide staircase.

“I just need a moment to…” Muriel feigned stumbling over her skirt and reached out to the trellis for support. It was more substantial than its filigreed appearance suggested, and there was no give when she attempted to rattle it. What was Henry’s interest in it? And where was he now?

She soon discovered the answer to her second question: beside the staircase to the upstairs floor was a doorway through which she could make out a narrow set of steps with a worn carpet, leading downwards. A servants’ staircase. Henry must have scurried down it to return to the ground floor.

“I’ll go back down this way,” she said, pointing.

But the guard had already taken her by the arm. It didn’t hurt, exactly, though if she tried to break free she would be left with a bruise. He guided her forcefully back to the top of the main staircase and then watched her, arms folded, as she descended.

Muriel had the distinct impression that Henry’s rattling of the trellis had been an inspection that was now complete, and that his impulse would be to leave the house to avoid answering any of her questions. She went directly to the front door and opened it. The waiting horses and carriages blocked sight of the road beyond.

A scuffling sound made her turn. To her right was a low building set back from the main house, perhaps a stable shared by several adjacent properties. Its door was open and moving in the light breeze, the hinges producing squeaks of complaint.

Without forming a conscious thought, Muriel moved towards the building.

Its interior was dim. From a series of enclosures came the faint harrumphs of horses. It was certainly possible that Henry had entered the building and disturbed them. Why was he hiding? She only wanted to catch up to him and compare findings about Simeon Courtenay. All her other questions could wait.

Her investigations in the past had rarely involved skulking around in this manner; her enquiries were usually of the conversational type, relying only on her wits. Whenever her heart rate quickened, she would repeat to herself There is no true danger here, to offset a sense of peril inspired by the mystery stories she liked to read in the Strand. She attempted it now. It didn’t work.

Neither did she call out Henry’s name. Did she really believe he was hiding here in the straw like a child? Her heart was beating faster all the time.

Slowly, she pushed open the doors of each stable enclosure in turn. The first was empty, the second occupied only by a fine-looking chestnut mare and the third an almost-black stallion.

When she opened the fourth door, she gagged immediately and let the door swing shut. She stared at its plain wooden surface for several seconds before pushing it open again, praying that what she had seen would be gone.

The body was slumped against the back wall of the otherwise empty stall. There could be no supposing that it was Henry, despite the fact that the barrister’s wig had slipped and overshadowed much of the man’s face. Deep lacerations covered the cheeks and forehead. A series of brutal slashes had destroyed the throat.

She turned aside and retched, spitting onto the straw.

She told herself to leave, but found herself facing the corpse again. Was this man on the list she had compiled? If so, which column – the duped donors or one of Simeon Courtenay’s associates who hoped to profit from the scheme? Amongst all the other puzzles, why would anybody be wearing a barrister’s wig and robes on a Saturday evening? She experienced a dim sense of pride that she was asking herself what seemed to be sensible questions, given the circumstances.

Tentatively, she reached into the man’s black robes. Her fingertips grazed against an object, and she drew it out. A pocketbook.

When she opened it, she found two opened envelopes within. Both were addressed to the same person: Benjamin Hardy. That must be the dead man’s name, then.

It was only after replacing the pocketbook that it struck her that it was notable that it had not been stolen. Indeed, a search in another pocket revealed an expensive-looking watch. While there were no rings on the man’s fingers, neither was there any sign that he ordinarily wore a wedding band. Several of the fingers were streaked with bloody cuts, and it occurred to Muriel to wonder why there was no pool of blood on the floor from these injuries and the far more severe ones at the throat.

She now saw that Hardy held something in his hands – or rather, between his hands. Lengths of string were entwined around each index finger, connected to one another, and hanging between them was a flat circle of card with paper pasted onto both sides. Muriel had seen such child’s toys before. When the string was pulled tight, the circle would spin and reveal each picture in turn in quick succession, creating the illusion that they were a single image.

On one side was drawn a cylindrical cage with thin bars, on the other a canary in flight.

CHAPTER 4

When her steward, Kenzie, arrived at the dining room with copies of The Times and the Morning Post, Muriel took them from him eagerly and began scouring their contents.

Accounts of the death of Benjamin Hardy, a member of the Honourable Society of the Middle Temple and a barrister at the Royal Courts of Justice, warranted coverage in both publications, though not on the front pages. Hardy had been missing since Wednesday at seven o’clock – four days before Simeon Courtenay’s party – and had last been seen on Middle Temple Lane having completed his day’s work. The reports raised the possibility that rather than having returned home he may have spent those unaccounted-for days at another of his properties in Royal Tunbridge Wells. The fact that he had died wearing his wig and robe were omitted from the articles. Equally mysteriously, the cause of death was not mentioned, and neither report specified the location in which the body was discovered, mentioning only the West End. Simeon Courtenay evidently had friends in the press.

During the night, the image of the dead barrister had appeared in Muriel’s mind often. She knew she ought to be horrified, but instead the vision inspired in her the same morbid fascination as Edgar Allan Poe’s stories of Parisian murder. Now she looked at the veins on the backs of her hands, imagining them sliced and blood running freely. It was a distasteful idea, of course, but no more than that. The reasons for Benjamin Hardy’s murder were of far more interest than the manner of his death.

Still, she understood that other people – certainly other women – would not respond to a murder in the same manner. Most would consider her interest ghoulish. Perhaps there is something wrong with me, she concluded, without any particular admonition.

*   *   *

As Muriel descended the staircase to the cellar with both newspapers tucked under her arm, she heard a voice from somewhere above her: “Ma’am? Miss Carew?” and she grimaced. When she had dipped her head into the kitchen, she had decided that Kenzie would be occupied polishing silverware for some time yet. Now he wouldn’t rest until he found her. He was a worrier.

“Down here,” she called. Then she scurried to the bottom of the staircase, laying claim to the cellar. Kenzie was territorial about their respective roles, and this was his domain.

The cellar wasn’t entirely dark. Along the top of the right wall were three shallow, arched windows at ground level. The remains of her father’s prized collection of wines and ports half-filled the racks on the left wall. The rest of the dingy space was taken up by shelving units and green-painted cabinets which she faintly remembered having once been situated in her father’s study, and alongside these a worn leather armchair and a table upon which lay a pair of spectacles, a journal and a pencil.

“Ma’am…” Kenzie said as he entered, but didn’t add anything more. He hurried down the narrow steps, bending to avoid striking his head on the overhanging ceiling. Over his uniform he wore a dull brown apron.

Muriel passed between the rows of shelves filled with neatly folded newspapers, then pulled the uppermost drawer of the nearest of the eight cabinets to reveal folders crammed with individual clippings.

“I see now why you don’t like me to come down here, Ken,” she said. “It’s even more organised than I would have imagined possible, whereas I’ve always been good at making a mess.”

Kenzie’s papery cheeks flushed. “Not at all, ma’am. It is a peculiar affectation of mine, I know.”

“It’s not an affectation, but a crucial resource,” she retorted. “Don’t think I’m unaware that all the information you’ve provided me, which has proved vital to the work I’ve done on others’ behalf, requires a physical repository. More to the point, you’ve lived in this house longer than I have. You’re entitled to make it your own, and to retain newspapers that would otherwise have been thrown away. I only wish you would take greater liberties, Ken. That would make me feel less of a wretch about exploiting you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“One day I’d like you to talk me through it all.”

Kenzie bowed his head. It was far from a commitment.

“This is as good a time as any to brief you about yesterday’s charitable event,” she said. “I’m afraid I unearthed very little about the subterfuge linked to the construction of the school. The donors were happy enough to speak to me, but anybody who might have known the truth kept well away. I’ve still no idea what sums of money are involved, or how many are lining their pockets – other than Simeon Courtenay, of course.”

“I see. Undoubtedly, Mr Courtenay will be distracted by other affairs this morning,” Kenzie replied.

Muriel pictured Simeon standing over the corpse in the stables. Would he have been horrified at the discovery of a dead body on his property, or simply furious at the intrusion?

“Then you’ve already heard?” she asked.

“I read the headlines before you came down for breakfast, ma’am.”

“Is that your usual habit? You’re very good at refolding newspapers, then. They’re always pristine when I get to them.” Her shoulders slumped. “It was me that found him, you know.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“Afterwards, I dashed into the house and informed a maid – I told her to bring a member of the household to the stables. Now I wonder if I ought to have gone to the police directly. I was preoccupied with keeping myself anonymous.”

“The… stables?”

“You said you already knew.”

“I see now that I was mistaken. I’m not clear to what you are referring.”

“The barrister – Benjamin Hardy. I found his dead body, Ken.”

The elderly steward gaped at her. “You found a corpse in the stables at Simeon Courtenay’s house?”

“Yes. A detail omitted from the newspaper reports about him. They also declined to describe his state. He was…” She grimaced as she saw Hardy again in her mind’s eye. “There were wounds all over his body, and his throat had been cut – but not in the way a farmer might slit the throat of a suffering animal. It was ragged. It must have taken several slashes before he died, and then it would certainly have been in agony.”

“Ma’am…” Kenzie began, but he didn’t seem to know what to say next.

“It’s quite all right,” she said. “It was a shock, but now I’m only left with an even greater desire to understand what’s going on.”

“This is entirely different,” the steward managed to say. “You have been intent on exposing wrongdoing, ma’am, but nothing of this sort. We must stay well away from this business. This maid that you spoke to – is she likely to remember you?”

“I put her in such a state that I’m quite sure she wouldn’t recall who it was that told her the news – I slipped away directly after I spoke to her.”

Kenzie exhaled with relief. “Then you have done your part. You need not have anything more to do with it.”

“There’s something else, Ken. Henry Jekyll was at the party.”

Kenzie sat down heavily in the leather armchair at the end of the row of cabinets. Suddenly, he appeared far older than his sixty-five years.

“Jekyll,” he repeated hollowly. As if it was an unconscious action, he reached out and his fingers curled around the journal that lay on the table beside him, and he drew it onto his lap.

He was silent for some time. Finally, he looked up at Muriel with pale, watery eyes.

Kenzie’s distaste for Henry had always been evident, yet he had never explained the reason, and made it clear that he preferred not to speak of him at all. Perhaps, like Muriel and against all logic, he associated the death of General Sir Danvers Carew with Henry’s abrupt disappearance.

Similarly, all morning Muriel had scolded herself for drawing a line between the corpse and the fact that Henry had been nearby. His presence had been a coincidence – and anyway he was infirm and walked with a cane. Even if he were stronger, he could have had no opportunity to overwhelm and kill Benjamin Hardy during the few minutes between her last sighting of him at the party and her discovery of the body. Though of course the wig and robes, and the lack of a pool of blood, suggested the murder had taken place far earlier…

With some difficulty, Kenzie rose from his seat, pocketed the journal, then took the folded Times from under Muriel’s arm.

“Miss Carew, when you spoke of a newspaper report, I had assumed you were speaking of the one on the sixth page. It now seems more pertinent than ever.”

He wafted the newspaper open and spread it on the table. He pressed his finger on a single, short column of text.

Berkeley Square Break-In, the headline read. Then: Courtenay Household Shocked at Senseless Destruction.

It was only a very brief article. The intruder had apparently taken nothing from the house, perhaps having been scared off either by the sound of movement from the bedrooms on the second floor, or by one of the serving staff. The door to a first-floor study had been splintered – ‘as though by a controlled explosion