"Brandy," Mackinnon was muttering.
"Don't be soft," said Jim. "You can't go into a pub dressed like that - you wouldn't last five minutes. Where d'you live?"
"Chelsea. Oakley Street."
"Got any money on you?"
"Not a penny. Oh, God. . ."
"All right, come with me. I'll take you somewhere you can change your clothes and have a drink - and we'll talk about this murder business. Sounds a prime lark to me."
Mackinnon, drained of will and even of the capacity for surprise, showed no reaction as the young stage-hand with the green eyes and the rough clothes led him around into the street, hailed a cab and, in the most authoritative manner imaginable, gave an address in Bloomsbury.
Chapter Three
THE PHOTOGRAPHERS
Jim paid off the cab in Burton Street, a quiet little row of three-storey shops and houses not far from the British Museum, and, while Mackinnon glanced around nervously, unlocked the door of a neat, double-fronted shop with GARLAND AND LOCKHART, PHOTOGRAPHERS painted over the window. He led Mackinnon in through the darkened shop into a warm, well-lit room behind it.
This was furnished as an odd mixture of laboratory, kitchen and shabbily comfortable sitting-room. A bench laden with chemicals stood along one wall, a sink occupied one corner, and a battered armchair and sofa stood on either side of a black-leaded range. A pungent reek filled the air.
Most of the reek came from the short clay pipe being smoked by one of the two men in the room. He was aged about sixty, tall and powerfully built, with stiff grey hair and a beard of the same colour. He looked up from the table as Jim came in.
"Hello, Mr Webster," said Jim. "Wotcher, Fred."
The other man was much younger: mid-twenties, about Mackinnon's age. He was lean and sardonic-looking; his expression was a vivid mixture of sharp humour and a cool, intelligent thoughtfulness. Just as Mackinnon compelled attention, so did something about this man - it might have been the dramatically disordered fair hair, or the broken nose.
"Greetings, O strange one," he said. "Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn't see you. . ."
This to Mackinnon, who was standing in the doorway like a phantom. Jim turned to him.
"Mr Webster Garland, and Mr Fred Garland, photographic artists," he said. "And this is Mr Mackinnon, the Wizard of the North."
They got up to shake hands. Webster said enthusiastically, "I saw you perform last week - marvellous! At the Alhambra. You'll have a glass of whisky?"
Mackinnon sat down in the armchair while Jim perched on a stool by the bench. As Webster poured the drinks Jim said, "We had to get out over the roof. The thing is, Mr Mackinnon had to leave in a hurry, and he's left his normal clothes in the dressing-room, not to mention his money and other bits and pieces. I can probably pick 'em up in the morning, but he's in a fair bit of trouble by the look of things. So I thought we might be able to help."
Seeing Mackinnon's doubtful look, Frederick said, "This is Garland's Detective Agency, Mr Mackinnon. We've tackled most things in our time. What's your problem?"
"I'm not sure I. . ." Mackinnon began. "I don't know whether it's a suitable case for a detective agency. It's . . . very vague, very . . . shadowy. I don't know. . ."
"It can't do any harm to hear it," said Jim. "There won't be any fee if we don't take it on, so you've got nothing to lose."
Webster raised his eyebrows slightly at the coldness in Jim's voice. Jim had begun to be irritated by Mackinnon; by his shifty, furtive manner, by his unpleasing combination of the helpless and the sly.
Frederick said, "Jim's right, Mr Mackinnon. No engagement, no fee. And you can trust our discretion. Whatever you tell us here will stay secret."
Mackinnon looked from Frederick to Webster and back again, and made up his mind.
"Aye," he said. "Very well. I'll tell you about it, but I'm not sure whether I want any detecting done. It might be best to let the whole thing blow over. We'll see."
He drained his glass, and Webster filled it again.
"You mentioned murder," Jim prompted.
"I'll come to that. What d'ye know about spiritualism, gentlemen?"
Frederick raised his eyebrows. "Spiritualism? Funny you should say that. A man asked me today to look into some spiritualist affair. Fraud, I expect."
"There are many frauds, aye," said Mackinnon. "But there are some who have a genuine gift for the psychic, and I'm one. And in my profession it's a handicap, despite what you might think. I try not to let the two things overlap. What I do on stage looks like magic, but it's only technique. Anyone could do what I do if they practised.
"But the other side, the psychic side . . . that's a gift. What I do is called psychometry. D'ye know the term?"
"I've heard it, yes," said Frederick. "You take an object and you can tell from it all sorts of things - is that right?"
"I'll show you," said Mackinnon. "Have you got something I can try it with?"
Frederick reached across the bench where he was sitting and picked up a little circular object of brass, not unlike a heavy pocket-watch without a face. Mackinnon took it, sat forward, and held it in both hands, eyes shut, frowning.
"I can see . . . dragons. Red, carved dragons. And a woman . . . Chinese. She's dignified and very still, and she's watching, just watching. . . There's a man on a bed or a couch of some sort. He's asleep. No, he's moving, he's dreaming. He's crying out. . . There's someone coming. A servant. A Chinaman. With a . . . with a pipe. He's crouching down. . . He's got a taper from the lamp. . . He's lighting the pipe. There's a sweet smell, sickly. . . Opium. There, it's gone now." He opened his eyes and looked up again. "Something to do with opium," he said. "Am I right?"
Frederick ran his hands through his hair, too amazed to speak. His uncle sat back and laughed, and even Jim felt impressed - by the brooding atmosphere Mackinnon evoked, by his still concentration, as much as by what he said.
"You've hit the bull's eye," said Frederick, leaning forward and taking the brass object from his hand. "D'you know what this is?"
"I've no idea," said Mackinnon.
Frederick wound up a small key in the side of it and pressed a button. From inside the mechanism a long, thin ribbon of whitish metal unwound itself, to coil in a heap on the bench in front of him.
"It's a magnesium burner," he said. "You set the end alight and it burns down, and the spring shoves it out at exactly the same rate, so that you have a constant light for taking pictures by. And I last used this in an opium den in Limehouse, taking pictures of the poor devils who smoke the stuff. . . So that's psychometry, eh? I'm impressed. How does it happen? D'you see a picture in your mind, or what?"
"Something like that," said Mackinnon. "It's like having a dream when you're awake. I can't control it. . . It comes into my mind at the oddest times. And this is the point: I've seen a murder, and the murderer knows I have, but I don't know his name."
"Good start," said Frederick. "Promising. You'd better tell us all about it. More whisky?"
He filled Mackinnon's glass, and sat back to listen.
"It was six months ago," began Mackinnon. "I was performing in a private house for a nobleman. It's something I do from time to time - more as a guest, you understand, than a hired entertainer."
"You do it without a fee, you mean?" said Jim. He was finding Mackinnon's condescending manner and high, slightly grating, genteel Scottish voice increasingly hard to bear.
"There is a professional charge, naturally," said Mackinnnon, stiffly.
"Who was the nobleman?" said Frederick.
"I would rather not say. A man of great prominence in political life. There is no need for his name to be mentioned."
"As you wish," said Frederick affably. "Please go on."
"I was invited for dinner on the evening of the performance. That is my usual practice. I am one of the guests; that is understood by all. While the ladies withdrew after dinner and the gentlemen remained in the dining room, I went into the music room of this parti
cular house and prepared the items I needed for my performance.
"I noticed that someone had left a cigar-case on the lid of the piano, and I picked it up, meaning to put it out of the way somewhere, and at once I had one of the strongest psychometric impressions I've ever experienced.
"It was a river in a forest - a northern forest, with dark pines and snow, and a lowering, dark grey sky. There were two men walking together on the bare ground by the bank, talking angrily. I couldn't hear them, but I could see them as clearly as I see you now; and suddenly one of them took his stick and drew a sword out of it, and ran the other man through and through - not a moment's warning - in and out of his chest three, four, five, six times. I could see the dark blood on the snow.
"And when the man lay still, the killer looked around for a clump of moss and wiped his sword clean, and then bent and took him by the feet and dragged him away towards the water. The snow was beginning to fall. And then I heard a splash as the body fell into the water."
He paused and sipped his whisky. Either it's true, thought Jim, or he's a better actor than I take him for; because Mackinnon was sweating with fear, and his eyes were haunted. But then, damn him, he was a performer - that was his profession. . .
Mackinnon went on: "I came to myself after a few moments, and found I was still holding the cigar-case. And then, before I could put it down, the door of the music room opened and in came the very man I'd just seen. He was one of the guests - a big, powerful man with smooth fair hair. He saw what I was holding and came up to take it from me, and our eyes met, and he knew what I'd seen. . .
"He didn't speak to me, because at the same moment a servant came into the room. He turned to the servant and said, 'Thank you, I've found it now,' and, with a last look at me, he went out again. But he knew.
"I went through my performance that night, and everywhere I looked I seemed to see that sudden furious stabbing and the dark blood gushing out on to the snow. And his smooth, powerful face was looking at me all the time. Well, naturally, I didn't let my host down - the performance was a great success - I was generously applauded by everyone there; and several gentlemen were good enough to say that the great Maskelyne himself had never done better. When I'd finished I gathered my materials and left at once, instead of mingling politely with the guests as I usually do. You see, I was beginning to be afraid of him.
"Ever since then I've lived in fear of meeting him again. And one day recently that wee man with the glasses - Windlesham - came to me and said that his employer would like to meet me. I knew who he meant, though he wouldn't say his name. And this evening, he came again, with a gang this time - well, you saw them, Jim. He said that he was obliged to take me to his employer to settle a question of mutual interest - that was how he put it.
"They want to kill me. They're going to take me and kill me, I'm certain of it. What can I do, Mr Garland? What can I do?"
Frederick scratched his head.
"You don't know the man's name?" he said.
"There were a lot of guests that night. I may have been told it, but I can't remember. And Windlesham wouldn't say."
"What makes you think they want to kill you?"
"This evening he said if I didn't agree to come with them after the show there would be extremely serious consequences. If I were an ordinary person, I'd go into hiding. Change my name, perhaps. But I'm an artiste! I have to be visible to earn my living! How can I hide? Half of London knows my name!"
"That should make you safer, then," said Webster Garland. "Whoever he is, he'd hardly dare to harm you if you're in the full glare of public attention, surely?"
"Not this man. I've never seen such ruthlessness on any human face. And besides, he's got powerful friends - he's wealthy and well connected - I'm just a lowly conjuror. Oh, what can I do?"
Suppressing the suggestion that came to his mind, Jim got up and left the room for a breath of fresh air. He was finding it more and more difficult to control his irritation with the man. It was hard to pin down why, but he'd seldom met anyone he disliked more.
He sat in the back yard and shied bits of gravel through the unglazed window of the new studio Webster was having built, until he heard a cab being called to the front door. When he thought Mackinnon had gone, he went back inside, where he found Webster lighting his pipe with a spill from the fire and Frederick winding the magnesium back into the pocket burner.
Frederick looked up and said, "Nice little mystery, Jim. Why'd you get up and leave?"
Jim flung himself down into the armchair. "He was getting on me nerves," he said. "And I don't know why, so don't ask. I wish I'd left him to it instead of risking me neck hauling him over the rooftops. 'I canna stand the heights! Oh, let me doon, let me doon!' And his blooming snobbishness-- 'Of course, Ai'm treated as quaite one of the guests. . .' Great shivering Tom-noddy. You ain't taken him on, have you, Fred? As a client, I mean?"
"He didn't want to be taken on - quite. It's protection he wants, not detection, and I told him we didn't deal in that. But I've got his address, and I said we'd keep our eyes open on his behalf. I don't know what else we can do at this stage."
"Chuck him out for a start," said Jim. "Tell him to take a jump at himself."
"Whatever for? If he's telling the truth, it's interesting, and if he's lying, it's even more interesting. I take it you think he's lying."
"Course he is," said Jim. "I never heard such a package of whoppers in all me life."
"You mean the psychometry?" said Webster, settling back in the sofa. "What about his little demonstration? I was impressed, even if you weren't."
"You're an easy mark, you are," said Jim. "I pity you if you ever come up against the three-card trick. He's a conjuror, ain't he? He knows more about cunning little bits o' machinery than even Fred here. He knew what that thing was and he saw that photograph you're so proud of up there. He put two and two together and had you gaping like a pair of yokels."
Webster looked up at the mantelpiece, where Frederick had pinned a print of one of their pictures from the opium den, and then laughed and flung a cushion at Jim, who fielded it neatly and tucked it behind his head.
"All right," said Frederick, "I give you that one. But the other story about the forest and the murder in the snow - what d'you make of that?"
"You poor cod," said Jim. "You didn't believe that, did you? I despair, Fred. I thought you had a bit of milk in your coconut. Since you can't see what's obvious, I'll have to tell you. He's got something on this geezer, this guest at the dinner party. Blackmail, see? Naturally the bloke wants to get him out of the way, and I don't blame him. And if you don't like that for an explanation, try this one: he's been playing goose and duck with the feller's wife, and he's been found out."
"That's what I like about Jim's mentality," said Frederick to Webster, "if that's what it is: it goes straight for the basic. No unnecessary frills, no higher motives."
Jim jeered. "You did believe him! You're getting soft, mate, and no error. Sally wouldn't fall for a tale like that. But then, she's got a head on her shoulders."
Frederick's face darkened. "Don't talk to me about that ranting jade," he said.
"Ranting jade! That's a good 'un. What was it you called her last time? A fanatical, narrow-minded calculating machine. And she called you a feckless, feather-brained fantasist, and you called her--"
"Enough, damn it! I want nothing more to do with her. Tell me about--"
"I bet you go and see her before the week's out!"
"Done. Half a guinea I don't."
And they shook hands.
"Do you believe him, Fred?" said his uncle.
"I don't have to believe him to wonder about his case. As I said a moment ago, only Jim doesn't remember, if he's lying it makes the whole business more interesting, not less. In any case, I've got spiritualism on my mind at the moment. When this kind of coincidence comes up I always take it as a hint there's something going on."
"Poor old Fred," said Jim. "The decay of a fine m
ind. . ."
"What about spiritualism, then?" said Webster. "Is there anything in it?"
"Plenty," said Frederick, refilling his glass. "There's fraud, there's gullibility, there's fear - not so much fear of death as fear of there being nothing after it - there's loneliness, there's hope, there's vanity; and maybe in the middle of it all there's something real."
"Get away," said Jim. "It's all poppycock."
"Well, if you want to find out, there's a meeting tomorrow night of the Streatham and District Spiritualist League--"
"Load o' rubbish!"
"- which might interest your broad, sympathetic, and ever-open mind. Especially as there's something odd going on. Care to come along and have a look?"
Chapter Four
NELLIE BUDD
Frederick wasn't the only person to be interested in spiritualism, by a long way. It was one of the burning concerns of the time. Humble parlours, fashionable drawing rooms and university laboratories alike all echoed to the sounds of rapping and knocking as spirits with nothing better to do tried to communicate with the living; and stories circulated of even stranger manifestations - ghostly voices, spirit trumpets and mediums who could exude a mysterious substance called ectoplasm. . .
It was a solemn business. Was there life after death? Were phantasms and apparitions really there? Was mankind on the verge of the greatest discovery in history? Many earnest people took it all very seriously, and no one was more earnest than the Streatham and District Spiritualist League, which was meeting in the house of Mrs Jamieson Wilcox, widow of a most respectable grocer.
Frederick had been invited by one of the members, a City clerk who was perturbed by some things he'd heard in the course of a seance. The man insisted that Frederick should disguise himself; he was embarrassed at spying on his friends, but he'd said to Frederick that there were great issues involved, matters of enormous financial implication, and he dared not ignore it. Frederick readily agreed. He became a scientist for the evening, and Jim went as his assistant.
"The only thing you have to do," Frederick told him, "is listen. Remember every word. Ignore the flying tambourines and the ghostly hands - they're two a penny at a do like this - just concentrate on what the medium says."