Gibbous House Read online

  Miss Pardoner did not remain silent. She turned in her chair to examine the constable the better, pushing aside the remains of her repast to lean both elbows on the wood in a most forward manner. Her eyelids made rapid and contrived motion and she breathed a question in one word: ‘Murder?’

  If the investigator’s visage showed any reaction to Miss Pardoner, it was only that of Theseus regarding Medusa’s head dangling from his grip. I gave my ward a stern look. ‘That is quite enough, Miss Pardoner. This is a serious matter. Frivolity will not aid us in the capture of the villain.’

  ‘Murder is serious, Mr Moffat,’ Turner agreed, nodding sagely at Miss Pardoner, but he said no more, seemingly content to await his loaf and cheddar.

  Once more I was struck by the remarkable passivity required in this new science of detection. By the same token, I was beginning to feel as uncomfortable around the policeman as Maccabi. Still, I resolved to engage with Turner.

  ‘So, Constable Turner, an itinerant rogue, a vagabond footpad. Do you think such a thing likely?’

  He gave me the benefit of his most stony regard and said, ‘I surely would, but for the lack of motive, Mr Moffat.’

  ‘Robbery, perhaps?’

  He shook his head, slowly. ‘Hardly that. The corpse had a golden guinea in his waistcoat pocket.’

  Maccabi’s eyes started from his head, my ward gave a gasp; my face remained composed, but I was filled with rage that I had not searched the body, since the man appeared to have been in possession of more pecuniary assets than myself at the time.

  Once more the policeman fell silent. I found it difficult not to offer to ensure the guinea found its way to the surviving brother, surmising that the policeman would rather see to this himself. Maccabi, still uncomfortable in the presence of the law, stammered, ‘B-but do you have your suspicions? Surely we are not suspected?’

  Not we, but certainly Maccabi.

  At that point Mrs Gonderthwaite appeared. The two heteroclite specimens moved in harmony behind her, although to what purpose I could not tell. There was something vaguely familiar about their simian features, as though had they been drawn by a more expert hand they would have resembled a human of my acquaintance.

  I addressed the cook. ‘Constable Turner will have a fresh loaf and some cheddar.’

  No sooner had I said it than I wished for something more outlandish, since, on previous evidence, almost anything could be produced from the bare pantry as if from a magician’s sleeve.

  The woman and her hominid acolytes departed to conjure the victuals from the thin air of the kitchen. I enjoined the professor to provide the company with a libation of his choosing, the greensome foulness excepted. He skipped lightly to the task, and with an eye for Maccabi’s reaction I enquired of Turner, ‘Shall we each of us then expect an inquisition? I wonder which of us is in a position to claim alibi? Certainly I have enjoyed a modicum of my own company of late, with none to vouch for me. I expect others are more fortunate.’

  He composed his features quickly, but not before two lines in his brow briefly indicated an interior reflection. Strangely, he replied: ‘Oh, I am not concerned about such things. After all, how can we know when the fellow met his fate? A diary of movements would not help my investigation. Besides, my opinion is that what has occurred is that rare thing: a motiveless crime.’

  ‘Motiveless? What do you mean?’

  ‘Motive is one to the three pillars of crime detection. Except in extremely unusual circumstances, for every murderer there must be the motive for, the means by which, and the opportunity to commit any crime.’

  ‘Speak English, man!’

  ‘The why, the how and the combination of time and favourable circumstance. But as I say, I consider this an exceptional case.’

  It now fell to me to feel less than comfortable; perhaps there was more to the marvel of detection than I had heretofore thought. It mattered not, for at that moment the constable’s sustenance arrived in a most peculiar manner. The doors swung wide, but there was no sign of the cook. Instead, the pair of near-primates came in at quite a lick, the one holding a large round loaf upon his head and the other rolling a gigantic cheese before him in the manner of a child with a hoop and a stick. They stopped short at the table, near the policeman’s seat, composed themselves in crude imitation of the most obsequious of footmen and laid the comestibles before our guest. They gave him an animalistic showing of teeth, which may have been a smile, and withdrew. The policeman gave a tiny smile of his own and said, ‘I wonder which of the brothers is the father? There is but little of Mrs Gonderthwaite in them, save perhaps about the eyes. Well, they are short an uncle or a father, in any event.’

  The professor gave a shrug, Maccabi gave one of his own, although with some stiffness about it. On Miss Pardoner’s face I espied a not unexpected smirk, as she informed Turner and myself, ‘At the risk of indelicacy, I am given to understand that – as to the paternity of the two – Mrs Gonderthwaite is undecided, much as she has long been undecided in the matter of the relative charms of the two possible candidates.’

  What exercised my mind was my inability to imagine what the two imbeciles would do with a guinea.

  The professor placed a glass of leaded crystal before me, a beautiful thing. Brilliants glittered as the candlelight caught the geometric cuts in the glass.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said.

  I raised the stemware to eye level. ‘Indeed the vessel is a thing of rare beauty. What, pray, is the unattractive liquid it contains?’

  ‘It is a digestif, Mr Moffat. The Germans are exceptionally blessed with a number of truly magnificent bitters, but this, good sir, is a giant among them: Kujawische Magen-Essenz.’

  The liquid had the colour of the water in a well-used horse trough. Its name seemed a grandiose appellation for something quite so unappetising. Nevertheless, I sipped a little of it. It was less emetic than the absinthe, but not by a very great amount. The professor returned to his seat.

  Meanwhile, the policeman was making little impression on his loaf, and still less on the enormous cheddar. Miss Pardoner had begun fidgeting, while Maccabi seemed calmer. Perhaps he had been in need of the bitters.

  ‘Are you in need of some diversion, Miss Pardoner? Or do you wish to excuse yourself our dull male company?’

  She coloured a little. ‘Dull indeed, sir. Might we not elevate ourselves with a little conversation?’ she enquired.

  ‘Elevate?’ I gave Maccabi a look of enquiry.

  ‘I am sure Miss Pardoner does not think you in need of elevation, Maccabi.’

  He seemed to stifle a reply.

  ‘Well, Ellen, it seems you must make do with such conversation as the rest of us might provide, although I doubt anything I might say would prove of an elevatory nature,’ I said.

  At this point, the constable, having given up the unequal struggle with the cheese, asked the company, ‘The reporter? Allan? ‘I wonder, has he mentioned a certain name?’.

  ‘We have passed some hours in conversation, it would be strange indeed if none were mentioned.’ I yawned, although it was yet early.

  For once the policeman’s detachment wavered.

  ‘D____, sir. One name in particular, I mean to say a name of antiquity that is... ’

  But I knew before he uttered the name, ‘Cadwallader.’

  To no great surprise, Maccabi gave a start, which the policeman appeared not to remark.

  Miss Pardoner asked innocently, ‘The last Welsh King of Britain?’

  It took some effort not to laugh, as puzzlement seeped over the policeman’s features. He seemed unsure whether he was being played for a gull.

  ‘No, miss. Heathfield Cadwallader.’

  Both the professor and Maccabi gave a firm ‘No!’

  ‘He mentioned him to me, in passing,’ I said.

  I might have died from the look Maccabi gave me, were such things possible. From the professor’s look I would have been a very long time doing so.

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nbsp; The constable, his face offering a negative opinion on the bitters, addressed me thus: ‘In passing? I have found him monomaniacal on the subject.’

  The professor scrambled from his chair and seized the nearmost bottle from the long sideboard. ‘Shall we be hav-ing another?’

  I waved the academic away and asked, ‘How so, Constable?’

  He lifted his crystal but decided against a further sip and replaced the glass somewhat delicately over the ring it had left on the wood.

  ‘Mr Allan made my acquaintance shortly after beginning his employment at the Mercury. From that time scarcely a day has gone by when he has not importuned after the fate of one Heathfield Cadwallader. A party, I should add, of whom I have never heard, much less encountered, in any capacity.’

  Miss Pardoner, in a more serious tone than earlier, asked, ‘But why?’

  Maccabi let out a sigh and the policeman considered him momentarily before answering the young woman. ‘If I might be so bold as to suggest, subject of course to Mr Allan’s disposition, that he be brought below, I think it might interest you all to hear his obsessions first hand.’

  ‘A capital idea!’ I said, although, judging by the expressions of Maccabi and the dwarf, others did not share my enthusiasm. I instructed Maccabi to see to the transposition of Allan from his sickbed to our presence, and he made off to do so with more alacrity than good grace.

  The doors closed behind him. The professor, his grasp of grammar recovered along with his equanimity, asked: ‘Forgive me, Sergeant, but what of your investigation? Poor Cullis?’

  ‘Constable, Professor, Constable.’ He was quick to assert his true status, but a thin smile showed he was not above the implied flattery. ‘It proceeds, sir, it proceeds.’

  I caught Miss Pardoner’s eye and became convinced she shared my own opinion that the great detective was no more nor less than a humbug.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I confess that I myself started as the doors opened again with a clatter. It seemed that Maccabi had arranged Allan’s arrival with more care for its despatch than its safety. Mrs Gonderthwaite’s offspring entered bearing the reporter in the manner of a litter, one brother’s hairy paws were clamped around poor Allan’s shins whilst the other had a firm grip on his upper arms.

  He made a sorry litter, however, for he sagged quite dramatically at the middle. The brothers, without malevolence but with little care, deposited him in a chair at the policeman’s right hand. Allan looked a little pale, but he must have been in better health than he appeared for he drained Turner’s glass of its bitters and his grimacing worsened hardly at all.

  Constable Turner allowed Edgar Allan a few moments to compose himself before abruptly bidding him ‘Begin!’

  Evidently, Maccabi had apprised him of the reason for his summoning for he began in a wavering voice, ‘What is fear, I ask you? To phrase it mathematically’ – here a nod to the professor – ‘fear is the product of mystery multiplied by imagination. Which factors I must explain. I do not mean the hermeneutic mysteries of the Kabbala or of the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross. Rather the unexplained and unexplainable in the world of the mundane. Equally, I do not mean the contrived imaginations of the novelist or playwright. No, I refer to the visceral imagination of those alone and abroad in the night.’

  He hesitated at this point, perhaps concerned at the professor’s bristling at the mention of the Kabbalists and Rosicrucians, which I remembered meant Order of the Rosy Cross – while the former, as I understood it, was a system of belief practised by Knights Templar, Masonic Lodges and all manner of secret societies.

  ‘Put forward the case, a hypothetical one to be sure, of a man found delirious in a street in, shall we say, Baltimore. The man raves, crying out the name “Reynolds” from time to time. He is soon taken up. His last words might be “Lord, help my poor soul”, since many call on Him for the first time at the last. The man is buried in the clothes in which he was found. They are not his own, they say, and the name on the tailor’s labels does not match the one upon his headstone. So who has died? One man or two? Or is this the only Resurrection?’

  His voice had grown stronger through this short oration and the white flecks on his lips resisted the sharp lick of his tongue. But he was barely begun and continued thus: ‘Or shall we put another case, more empirical in essence – although perhaps lacking a body of proof? Can a man in this modern age just disappear? It would seem he can: the mere assumption of a name can change a man so completely as to place him beyond the grasp of determined pursuers. Even so, if a man plunges into baptismal waters, as it were, does he not reappear somewhere, reborn? Can he not be found if an image of the disappeared is at hand?’

  At this point, Allan produced from his coat two daguerreotype portraits about the size of a small volume. One depicted himself a little younger, less careworn. He held up the other to the company for their perusal.

  ‘This is Heathfield Cadwallader.’

  I recognised him, certainly. So, I was sure, did the others, since he yet remained in residence in the gatehouse.

  ‘A handsome fellow, is he not? His looks would preserve well in age, I think,’ I said.

  ‘He was a cousin, distant I admit. Impecunious too, and not above a supplicant letter, even to a relative as distant in miles as in blood. He was persistent. Many letters I threw away unread over the years, but one last missive I did open, I cannot tell you why. It was written in Newcastle and despatched on a ship across the Atlantic: a letter of quite different character. No tales of hardship, no pecuniary requests, simply a few veiled hints as to an improvement in expectations. He mentioned a large house in the north and a notary in Seahouses, but he was not more specific. My own letter of encouragement went unanswered.’

  He picked up his glass, by now quite drained of bitters; the professor nimbly arose and filled it with more of the same. Allan sipped absently and cleared his throat before continuing. ‘Some years later, it – ah – behove me to depart the Americas. Being experienced in the Fourth Estate, I thought to try my hand in Northumberland. I took a position at first with The Journal in Newcastle, with a view to finding my relative and seeing if his expectations had been met. At first, I enjoyed uncommon luck. The Office of the Turnpike Authority had had occasion to deal with a Mr Heathfield Cadwallader. It seems my relative had been in the habit of travelling between York and Newcastle on the stage, whilst taking the opportunity of relieving the more gullible passengers of their valuables at cards. He was little suspected at first, being in the respectable company of a wife. He was warned off the coaches in Newcastle at a date shortly before that of his letter.’

  Cadwallader appeared to have been a resourceful enough fellow, I was intrigued that he had met so grisly an end.

  Somewhat abruptly to my mind, Miss Pardoner took her leave of the company. Maccabi, the reporter and myself stood, as ceremony dictates. A nimble dismount from his seating arrangement proved too much for the professor on this occasion, and it seemed the policeman also cared not for such niceties. Allan seemed disinclined to continue, staring at the table surface as if some clue could be discerned in the grain of the wood.

  It was Maccabi who roused him from his contemplations.

  ‘And you were not so successful, thenceforth?’

  Allan gave a start, as though he had been in Baltimore or Brooklyn rather than across the table.

  ‘Ah no. I spent several months in Newcastle. I heard nothing, not in the public saloon bar nor the finest restaurants. Despondency filled me, I confess.

  ‘Early one morning at the turn of the year, I sat, wrapped in my topcoat, at a wharf on the quayside. I confess the previous evening had ended in ignominy, when the landlord of a nearby public house had evicted me with some force. The sandstone wall beside the wharf had served me quite well as a cot. Of a sudden, a large, black bird alighted beside me. I am obliged to tell you that I am possessed of an unreasonable fear of all birds, particularly those of the genus corvus.

  ‘Qu
ickly, though yet unsteady on my feet, I ran up the nearby stairs. Carved from the ubiquitous sandstone, these vertiginous flights join the riverside areas with the centre of the town. The Morrigan pursued me with much flapping and cawing. Despite my fear, I looked back over my shoulder at the bird, missing my step on occasion. I know now as I knew then that such behaviour on those stone stairs was foolhardy. Still, what a man fears will fascinate him also, don’t you think?’

  He paused, wiping a sleeve across his mouth, lately flecked with white.

  ‘I breasted the top of the stairway, ran pell-mell down a chare, narrow and dank and slippery underfoot from uncollected pure. The bird followed, cawing close to my ear. I stumbled, threw my arms up to protect my head and recognised the bird as Corvus corax sinuatus: a traveller as far from home as myself. Any here who know the true nature of fear will not be surprised that I fell into a dead faint.’

  Edgar Allan darted a look at the policeman, at which the latter raised his eyebrows and gave a diffident shrug of his shoulders. The reporter began to speak once more.

  ‘Ah... I was shaken awake some time later. One would suppose that I had been lucky not to suffer some assault or larceny on my person. On checking my pockets I found them no more empty than before, so perhaps luck played little part in it after all. The waking hand belonged to – ahem – a member of the Northumbrian constabulary.’

  Again he looked at the policeman’s most inexpressive face. Truly, the man was an incompetent liar; one wondered how he had made any kind of fist of the writing trade, much less journalism.

  ‘The incident with the bird had shaken me to the core, and I prevailed upon the constable to join me in a drink for restorative purposes. We emerged from the dingy alley and repaired to the Scotswood, a ramshackle but welcoming establishment. We took a porter for the body of it, as proof against the cold. The man remarked upon my accent, claimed he found it strange, and the conversation became an interview. He asked me why I was so far from home. I explained I was looking for a distant relative, that I had traced him to Newcastle and that the trail had vanished, as though the man had been plucked from existence by the hand of an unseen deity.’