Infernal Vices (Resurrectionist #3)

CHAPTER 2

THE LAW

The chime of the doorbell made both Troy and I jump in our seats. Mr. Troy rose, bowed to me, and rushed out of the study to answer the door, but by the sound of it Wilkins got there before him. Troy returned a minute later with a uniformed police constable in tow. The officer of the law was tall, lanky, and baby-faced, with a smattering of the fluffy stubble that I associated with a late developer covering his jaw line. I supposed he was trying to grow a beard to appear older and more masculine. His dark blue Melton wool uniform looked new and the warrant number on his collar was 7074. He was regimentally smart and the Brunswick Star on his distinctive domed helmet glinted. A silver whistle hung from a button hole, and the buttons themselves were polished to a dazzling shine.

“Constable Atkins, this is my master, Mr. Benedict Hannan,” Troy introduced.

“Good morning sir, I h-understand that a crime ‘as been committed at this here h-establishment, is that correct?” Atkins asked. His accent was inner city cockney, yet he was attempting the correct diction and over doing it a little .

“Indeed, indeed,” I sighed resignedly slumping back into my captain’s chair. “My silver has been stolen by that…that blaggard—” I pontificated,

“—that Dandy Rogue fellow!”

The constable’s eyes widened at hearing that particular moniker. “A…are you sure, sir?” he demanded.

“Of course, I’m sure,” I blustered haughtily. “Mr. Troy here saw him escaping.” I turned to Troy and gave him a look.

“Yes…Yes, I saw him escaping out the back window into the garden. I tried to pull him back in, but ohh, he was a slippery fish!” Troy added. I was quite relieved that we were firmly on the same page!

I observed how light suddenly sparked in the bobby’s eyes. “I…I need to get a message to Scotland Yard!” he said excitedly. It was as if I could see the cogs turning in his mind at the thrill of being the first officer on the scene for the Gentleman Thief’s latest dastardly escapade. He took out his notebook, swiftly thumbing through it for a blank page and then scribbled on the notepaper.

“Shall I find a runner?” Mr. Troy queried. Constable Atkins folded the paper and passed it to Troy.

“Yes, and tell the boy to give this to Detective Inspector Dancer, no one else, it has to be Dancer!” he said urgently.

Troy nodded and left the study.

The constable continued to jot in his notebook, the scritch-scratch of his pencil sounding amplified in my silent study. I broke that silence with a question.

“Tell me constable, who is this Detective Inspector Dancer?”

Atkins continued note taking as he absently said, “Oh, he’s a toff.” The constable looked up from his notebook as if suddenly aware of whom he was talking to. “Begging your pardon, sir, no offence meant,” he simpered. “The Chief Commissioner himself just put Dancer on the Gentleman Thief case. Detective Inspector Dancer’s father is a Duke or some-such…up Northumberland way. He could ‘ave had the life of Riley, but he chose to be an honest working copper cos he believes in truth and justice. He’s a credit to our dear Queen, and an inspiration to us all, sir,” the officer said spiritedly, then unsolicited, he informed,

“The Chief Commissioner believes the Gentleman Thief’s a t—is well-to-do an’ all. Word is he’s been thieving from society gents for the thrill of it. Dancer knows all there is to know about this rogue,” he said with a grin, his chest expanding with pride.

I sat up straighter in my chair, and reached for a sheaf of writing paper and my pen. I could see that the young officer hero-worshipped this Detective Inspector Dancer.

“He knows all about him aye,” I grumbled as I began to write my first note, ”—apart from what the devil looks like or how to catch him,” I barked cuttingly, “The lack of progress on that ghastly Jack the Ripper case has tested my trust in the efficacy of the police force,” I sneered, “If Detective Inspector Abberline cannot bring a serial murderer to justice, I have little faith that this Detective Inspector Dancer can reprimand a mere cracksman!”

I glanced up and saw how Atkins pursed his lips sulkily and was silent for a moment before, fiercer he said, “Dancer will get his man; you mark my words, sir. He’s like a bloodhound and won’t stop until the thief is dangling from the gallows!”

Was my lie about to place Sebastian in the cross-hairs of a detective seeking a path to glory? A wave of fear ran through me. What had I done? I gulped and bit my lip, holding in a wince, and then I instinctively made the sign of the cross.

“Mr. Wilkins!” I called out as I heard the front door close. My houseman entered the study.

“I require another runner. These letters need to be delivered. One to my office, the other to my insurer’s office at 41 Lothbury,” I said as hastily penned the missives, pushed them into envelopes, addressed, and sealed them. I passed the envelopes to my houseman who left me alone with the wet-behind-the-ears constable.

“My insuring agent retains a book of photographs with valuations of all of my items. Every article in my silver cabinet can be matched to its photograph,” I informed.

“That will be very useful in helping us see what the toe-rag pilfered,” Atkins said excitedly. I knew it would be useful for Sebastian too. Euan stole from me because he needed money, fast. Sebastian had offered to use his contacts in the demimonde to discover where Euan sold my silver. He’d made himself scarce and would call at the house again after the police had left.

“I think a cup of tea would be in order while we wait for your hound. Would you mind telling Mrs. Twig to send a pot? You may sit with the servants in the kitchen.”

“Much obliged, sir,” the constable said before leaving the study and wandering down the hall towards the scent of baking scones.

****

Twenty minutes later by my mantle clock, I’d taken tea with a nip of brandy for my nerves, but I’d told Wilkins to delay breakfast until this nonsense was dealt with. I heard the loping tread of Constable Atkins approaching in the hall. He paused outside the study door and knocked.

“Come.” The door opened and Atkins popped his head around. He still had his helmet on and the sight amused me a little. “I’ll need to take down the full particulars and inspect the scene of the crime before Detective Inspector Dancer arrives, sir.”

My moment of amusement melted away. I rose from my chair. “Of course. My silver cabinet is in the parlour,” I said as I strode past the officer and continued across the hall. I had not yet viewed the mess because I did not want the damage of my cabinet to distract me from the tangle of untruths I’d put in motion.

As I entered the parlour I saw that the heavy plum silk damask drapes for the window facing Bedford Square were still closed, yet the drapes for the rear window that gave a view of the garden were open, as was the sash window. An icy January breeze rushed in with the rays of morning sunlight, making me shiver to my bones. I immediately walked toward the window with the intention of closing it.

“Please don’t touch nuffin’ sir. Detective Inspector Dancer’s very strict about ensuring all remains as found.” I was not happy about being told what to do in my own home. I pivoted and scanned the room. My eyes affixed on the right corner of the room where my silver cabinet was in disarray. Fury boiled my blood. The elegant dark mahogany cabinet stood on exquisite turned and reeded legs. The bow fronted doors were arch topped with astragal glazing, either side of which stood carved columns with capitals. The interior back was lined in red raw silk and the shelves themselves were plate glass. This cabinet was the first large item of furniture I had purchased for myself when I began as an auctioneer and so it held great sentimental value. Both doors of the bow fronted cabinet were now open and I could see immediately that the lock had undergone considerable violence to enable access. A small sharp pointed kitchen knife lay on the floor beside the cabinet. The glass windows were, to my relief, unbroken. But the damage to the lock and rosewood marquetry inlay surrounding it infuriated me. I would need to employ a master locksmith and an artisan carpenter to restore the cabinet to its former glory.

I took a step closer to the sullied cabinet and saw how my once regimentally displayed collection was in a shambles. I wished that on this one occasion, my servants had not been so efficient with their task of dusting. Dust patterns on the glass shelves would have given me an idea as to which items were absent. Of course, I knew at first glance that Euan had stolen the smaller items of the collection—the Vesta cases, stamp boxes, snuff boxes, card cases. These could be pocketed and not weigh him down. With a gasp of disgust I realized that the exquisite silver fish shaped spice box that I’d purchased from Lawrence Blake was missing. My innards coiled at seeing the decimation of a collection that had taken me over twenty years to create. Nerves gnawed at my stomach and with the anger bubbling under my skin I could feel a headache coming on. My fingers rose to massage my temples.

“Are there many items missing Mr. Hannan?” the constable enquired.

“Yes,” I said testily. “It appears the thief stole the smaller items. But do not make the mistake of equating size with worth, constable,” I said tartly. “Several of the items were made by famous artisan silversmiths and they are priceless,” I explained a sharp, morose tone to my voice.

“I understand, sir.” The constable scribbled in his notebook as he spoke. “What, may I ask, is the source of your income, sir?”

“I beg your pardon!” I exclaimed disgusted by the impertinent question. Atkins flinched at my tone.

“I meant no h-offence sir, just taking down the particulars. ”

“I am a man of business, an auctioneer of fine art and furniture. I own Hannan’s, an auction house in Fitzrovia,” I spat but before I could continue the sound of the doorbell gave me pause.

Mr. Wilkins entered the parlour a minute later with a suited gentleman, and a uniformed officer.

“Ah! Detective Inspector Dancer!” Constable Atkins announced excitedly.

Detective Inspector Dancer removed his bowler hat and greatcoat and as if he were master of the house passed them to Wilkins without even sharing eye contact. “Atkins is it?” The tall, brawny newcomer had well-groomed mutton chops and a pomaded head of dark brown hair. His accent was peculiar, cultured with a hint of Yorkshire to it. It sounded a tad familiar but I could not place the fellow. Didn’t Atkins say Dancer’s father was a Duke in the North of England? Did this lordly member of the Metropolitan Police attend my club?

“Yes sir,” Atkins said standing tall and puffing out his chest. He spoke on with a stilted faux official tone. “Sir, Detective Inspector Dancer sir…This is Mr. Benedict Hannan, Sir. Mr. Hannan is the victim of a heinous robbery by the Dandy Rogue, sir.”

Dancer pinched the bridge of his nose, shook his head, and let out a sigh, “Constable Atkins,” Dancer said resignedly, “How long have you been on the job?

“Six weeks, sir,”

“Then you should bloody well know by now that it isn’t your place to come to conclusions about a crime or the perpetrator. I am the DI on this case and I will deduce who this cracksman is! Do you understand?” he roared.

“Yes, sir, sorry sir,” Atkins fumbled. The lad’s cheeks were beetroot red and I felt rather sorry for him. The second constable who had entered with Dancer stood behind him, regimentally straight backed, and he smirked while the young recruit got a humiliating dressing-down.

“You’d do well to remember your place. Now, do your job to and help assemble the facts of this case.”

“Yes sir, sorry sir,” Atkins simpered as he stared at his polished boots.

“Facts…tell me the facts that you have ascertained about what occurred here?” Constable Atkins flinched and looked deeply embarrassed. He flicked through his notebook and said,

“Um. Detective Inspector Dancer, sir…I have h-ascertained that Mr. Hannan’s valet, a Mr. Troy, discovered the thief at approximately ten minutes to seven this morning. He interrupted the thief while the blaggard made his escape through the rear window of the parlour, here—” Atkins gestured stiffly to the window “—it leads directly to the back garden through which he made his h-escape.” Dancer held his hand up to halt the stilted telling. He took a tour of the parlour and then nodded, permitting the officer to continue. The other constable remained by the door, ever watchful.

“Mr. Troy discovered that the silver cabinet had been stripped of a considerable number of items. Mr. Hannan informed me that his business is as an auctioneer in Fitzrovia. He said that his insurance agent keeps a book of photographs of the contents of the cabinet.” Atkins gestured to the damaged cabinet.

Throughout the interrogation of his constable, Detective Inspector Dancer didn’t send his gaze my way. It was as if I wasn’t in the room at all.

“Has this book of photographs been sent for?” Dancer asked.

“Yes, yes, sir. A note was sent with a runner to the insurance agent some twenty minutes ago.”

It was then that Dancer turned from perusing the cabinet and set his vulpine amber eyes on me. My blood turned to ice, and unconsciously, I took a step back.

“Hannan, is it?” Dancer strode across the room towards me with his hand outstretched. “Detective Inspector Jack Dancer,” he introduced. I stood rigidly with my hands behind my back. I shuddered at the thought of his clammy meaty paw touching my skin and so I did not offer my hand. He stood before me with a suspicious scowl upon his face and seemed to find my rejection of his hand offensive.

“I have a medical condition,” I revealed unwillingly “I do not shake hands.” He studied me for a moment as if I was the criminal and not, in fact, the victim. His eyes were that of a fox—sly and watchful of its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. I could tell from his bone structure, the haughty looks, and the superior way he held himself that he was most definitely of aristocratic stock. Fear flooded through me with the power and command of that look—a look that screamed ‘I am your better, and you’ll damn well tell me what I want to know’.

I got the idea that Detective Inspector Dancer was the kind of detective who did not care about whom he trod on in his search for the truth. He was a results man, that was for sure. He was for the thrill of the chase and glory in the capture. In a way, I admired men like him, men who vowed to carry out the letter of the law and not stop until they’d found their culprit, but deep in my heart I understood that I was walking on a knife’s edge. One step to the left or right and I’d find myself in a perilous situation. I’d need to be very careful in my dealings with this man. A fellow like Dancer could probably spot a liar a mile away! And in this instance, God save me, I was that liar! I would need to ensure dominance in my home.

“I say, detective. This is a beastly business. I take it that you and your men will reserve the utmost discretion about this hullabaloo. I’d rather not have every hack in London beating on my door,” I grumbled exactly as a man from my class would in such a predicament.

“We all follow Sir Howard Vincent's Police Code to the letter. Any officer who discusses this case with the press will be severely reprimanded.”

“Good, good.”

“Now, Mr. Hannan. Who was the first to notice the theft?” Dancer addressed me as if he hadn’t listened to a word of information the constable had previously told him.

“Mr. Troy, my valet. He roused me at around seven o’clock, I believe. He’d caught the thief red handed, making his escape out of the window here.” I gestured to the window.

Dancer strode to the window again, and dragged the sash higher. The damask drapes billowed and a gale of icy January air rushed into the room and stabbed my skin like pins. He poked his head out of the window, looked up, then looked down eyeing the flowerbed beneath the window. Then to my horror he climbed out.

I exchanged confused eye contact with the two police constables and then hurried to the window to see it was a bright morning with a milky blue winter sky, yet clouds approached swiftly on the breeze. Dancer was perusing the outside of my house, his gaze raking up and down the walls, fixing on each window, and guttering down pipe. Dancer then called,

“Constable Barnabus!” I moved away as the second constable rushed over to the window, “There’s a ruddy great footprint in the flower bed, here. Measure it, we’ll see how big the villain’s feet are!” Dancer ordered, “But first help me back in.”

Constable Atkins rushed over to help Barnabus pull Inspector Dancer back into the room.

“It was a swift, unhindered escape Mr. Hannan. I’m surprised that you haven’t made measures to secure your home correctly, especially as you house such treasures. You could do with a more substantial lock on that window, and maybe plant some holly bushes in the flowerbed,” he advised.

I was surprised by the gardening advice, but I did see how I’d been lax when it came to the security of my collections. A new lock and a holly bush could act as a deterrent for any future thief .

“Atkins, I’d like a private word, and then I want you to hurry back to headquarters and ask for a photographer to attend. Bring the plaster of Paris kit back with you too. Take a cast of the footprint. Barnabus, it’s about to rain, cover up that footprint to preserve it and take a look in the back alley and around the square to see if any items were dropped, then go door-to-door to make enquiries. Question the domestic staff, for they are always the first to be about in the morning. This is a busy square, someone must have seen his escape,“ Dancer instructed.

I knew full-well that this supposed clue of a footprint was not going to help in identifying the culprit. We extracted Euan from the clutches of the cabal without a stitch of clothing on and certainly no footwear. Everything Euan wore belonged to me. So this line of enquiry would most certainly be a dead end.

****