The Darke Chronicles Read online

  To friends Barry Forshaw and Peter Guttridge

  – two fellows in the know

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 The Curzon Street Conundrum

  2 The Puzzle of the Innocent Murderer

  3 The Mystery of the Missing Black Pearl

  4 The Riddle of the Visiting Angel

  5 The Curse of the Griswold Phantom

  6 The Vampire Murders Intrigue

  7 The Illusion of the Disappearing Man

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ‘Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon logic rather than upon the crime you should dwell.’

  Sherlock Holmes in The Copper Beeches

  by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  1

  THE CURZON STREET CONUNDRUM

  Blood was flowing from the wound, forming a neat crimson pool on the carpet. But at least now he was safe. Surely he was safe? And the wound … well, certainly it was serious, but not fatal. He would survive. He tried to reassure himself of this fact as darkness edged in from all corners of his vision, like ink seeping across blotting paper.

  Inspector Edward Thornton leaned forward and gazed out of the tiny window of his office in the upper reaches of Scotland Yard. It was a cold November day in 1897 and grey swirls of fog wreathed the adjacent rooftops, reducing them to vague silhouettes. They loomed like giant ghosts, ready to envelop the building.

  Thornton sighed wearily at this fancy that so easily took his mind from the very difficult matter in hand. Sergeant Grey looked up from the case notes he was scribbling in his crabbed hand. ‘It’s not that Curzon Street business is it, sir?’

  Thornton replied without moving. ‘Of course it is, Grey. There is something not quite right about it, but I cannot fathom out what it is.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. We’ve got the blighter who done it safely locked up in the cells. Case solved.’

  ‘Oh, yes, we have someone locked up in the cells, but I’m not so sure it’s the “blighter who done it”. And if Armstrong really is the murderer, we have so little evidence.’

  ‘There was the blood on his coat.’

  ‘Blood on his coat and the knowledge that he was in great debt to the murdered man. There’s not enough material there to weave a hangman’s hood, Grey. A good lawyer would blow those flimsy suppositions away in no time. And besides, I need to know how the crime was committed and how the murderer escaped from a locked room.’

  Grey dropped his pen on the desk in a gesture of mild irritation. ‘Then you know what to do, sir. You know where to go. Don’t you? When you’ve had a real puzzle in the past…’

  Thornton turned to his sergeant and pulled his thin, pale face into a mournful grimace. ‘Oh, I know all right. I don’t need you to tell me. Luther Darke. I have been trying to put off that inevitability for some time.’ He stroked his chin in an absent-minded fashion as his eyes flickered with mild irritation. ‘There is an element of humiliation in seeking his help. It’s an admittance of defeat.’

  ‘Go on, sir. Go and see him. At least it will put your mind at rest.’

  Thornton emitted a sigh of resignation and returned his gaze to the grey curtain of fog beyond the windows.

  Luther Darke poured himself a large whisky and sat back in his chair. As he did so, a lithe black cat leapt onto his lap with practised ease, curled up tightly, and began to purr. Absent-mindedly, he stroked the contented creature as he stared across at his visitor, his dark brown eyes shining. He raised his glass in a mock toast. ‘It is good to see you again, Edward. I am sorry that you will not join me in a drink. However, I am sure it is a wise move. Respectable gentlemen should not drink before noon, and then decorum decrees that it should be a sherry aperitif.’ He took a gulp of whisky, rolling it around his mouth. ‘Whisky is the milk of the Gods; sherry is their urine.’

  Thornton remained silent. Like an actor waiting for his cue, he knew when it would be his time to speak. This preamble was a variant of the usual extravagant felicitations that he always experienced when he visited Luther Darke.

  ‘To be honest, Edward, I am surprised to see you under my roof once more,’ said his host, affably. ‘You disagreed with me so strongly in the Baranokov affair – until my theory was proved correct that triplets had been used as a ploy in the theft of diamonds – that I thought I had lost your friendship for ever.’

  Thornton blushed slightly; partly for being reminded of his failure in the Baranokov case, and partly because this strange man referred to him as a friend. He didn’t think anyone could get close enough to Darke to become his friend. He was too enigmatic, too self-possessed, too complicated to give himself to straightforward friendship. There was Carla, of course, his lover, but she in her own way was just as mysterious and enigmatic as Darke himself.

  Luther Darke was the son of a duke but, because of his undisciplined and outrageous behaviour, he had become estranged from his widowed father at an early age. He had been a rebel and hated the arrogance and pomposity of the aristocracy. Although Darke had inherited a considerable amount of money on his father’s death, he had passed over the title and the family home to his younger brother, of whom he saw little. Ducal respectability and responsibility were abhorrent to him. He now occupied most of his time in being an artist – a portrait painter – and was gaining a growing reputation for his work. But even here, his energies were erratic. On a whim he would drop his brush halfway through a painting in order to follow up one of his other passions, which were very varied and eclectic. He had a fascination for the unexplained and the unknown. He took a great interest in the work of spiritualist mediums and unsolved crimes. It was his offer of assistance in the Carmichael mystery, when Foreign Office official Ralph Carmichael, his wife and two children – along with their pet spaniel – apparently disappeared into thin air that had brought Inspector Thornton into contact with this unique individual for the first time. Darke helped to solve the case and Thornton had sought his assistance several times since. However, after the Baranokov affair, over which they had disagreed violently, there had been a rift in their relationship. Thornton was well aware that it was he who, suffering from the humiliation of being proved wrong, had turned his back on his strange associate. But here he was again, seeking Darke’s assistance and hoping earnestly that it would be offered.

  Luther Darke took another gulp of whisky. ‘Ah, we see the world from different hilltops, you and I, Edward. You are the professional, scientific detective with a demand for rationality and feasibility; whereas I am the amateur, an artist, doomed to view things from a different angle and able to see shifting and often unusual perspectives. We are two halves of the perfect whole.’ He grinned at his own conceit and his eyes glittered mischievously. He had a broad, mobile saturnine face that possessed a wide, fleshy mouth. Dark, expressive eyebrows topped a pair of soft brown eyes that radiated warmth. His head was framed by a mane of luxurious hazel-coloured hair. He would have been handsome, but the crooked nose, broken in one of the many fights he had at school, robbed him of the classical symmetry of male beauty. He was not handsome then, but he had a magnetic presence that compelled one to watch his face with fascination as Thornton did. Every conversation was a performance. It was as though he was acting out his life.

  ‘So, enough teasing. The Curzon Street murder? Am I right?’

  Thornton nodded. ‘I am not happy about it.’

  ‘From what I have read in the papers, the case seems a straightforward one.’ Darke placed his whisky glass on the table by his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘Let me see. Shipping magnate Laurence Wilberforce is murdered at his Curzon Street mansion – stabbed – and one of the guests in
his house at the time was a certain Richard Armstrong, who owed the magnate a considerable amount of money that he could not repay. To make matters worse, I believe that blood was found smeared on the wretched fellow’s overcoat. Have I caught the essence of the matter?’

  Thornton gave a thin smile. ‘You knew I’d come to you.’

  Darke’s eyes twinkled with humour. ‘Indeed, I did. I was sure my worthy Thornton would not be taken in by such a simplistic solution. No doubt your superiors are quite content with Armstrong’s arrest and cannot wait to see him dangling at the end of a rope.’

  ‘They are indeed, despite the fact that one essential element of the case still remains a mystery.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘How the murder was committed.’

  Darke laughed. ‘Just a minor irritation. Not worth considering, surely? Pull the lever and let’s have done with the scoundrel.’

  Thornton’s sensitive face darkened. There was more truth in Darke’s flippant observations than was comfortable.

  ‘I presume that Armstrong has not confessed in some fit of madness?’

  ‘On the contrary, he professes his innocence most strongly.’

  Darke beamed, his face alive with excitement. ‘So, young friend, we have come to that precious, that essential moment: give me the facts. Give me the minutiae.’

  Thornton nodded. ‘Do you mind if I walk about while I talk? It will help me recall the details more clearly.’

  ‘The house is yours.’

  ‘This room will do.’

  ‘That’s one of the things I like about you, Edward. You are so literal. Pray begin.’

  ‘The murder occurred three nights ago at the Curzon Street mansion of Laurence Wilberforce. There was a small dinner party with six guests, business associates of Wilberforce, some of whom brought their wives.’

  ‘Armstrong’s wife was there?’

  ‘He’s a widower.’

  ‘Ah. Another avenue closed. Resume.’

  ‘There were Lord and Lady Clarendon; Mr Clive Brownlow, the Member of Parliament for Slough and his wife, Sarah; Jack Stavely, a junior partner in one of Wilberforce’s concerns and apparently very much a blue-eyed boy. And Armstrong.’

  ‘And Armstrong.’

  ‘Richard Armstrong who until recently worked for Wilberforce as a designer but left twelve months ago to set up his own business, helped by a generous loan from his old boss. But part of the arrangement was that he had to pay the money back within the year.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘£5,000.’

  Darke pursed his lips. ‘A considerable sum.’

  ‘One which he could not repay.’

  ‘You know this for certain?’

  ‘Indeed. He freely admits it. His business is in great financial difficulties. Only the previous week he had written to Wilberforce asking for more time to settle the debt.’

  ‘And the old boy refused?’

  Thornton nodded. ‘Apparently Wilberforce was a harsh, unsentimental man in business.’

  ‘And that is seen as a motive for murder.’

  Thornton nodded.

  ‘Very well. So what happened?’

  ‘All the guests had arrived, but Wilberforce had not shown his face. Mrs Wilberforce, Beatrice, was somewhat annoyed at his non-appearance. Apparently, he had retired upstairs to his dressing room over an hour before and had not been seen since. She sent up their butler, a fellow called Boldwood, to inform him that the guests had arrived. The butler returned some minutes later to say that Wilberforce was not in his dressing room, but that the door to his study, a chamber that adjoined the dressing room, was locked and a light could been seen at the bottom of the door. Somewhat concerned, Mrs Wilberforce asked Jack Stavely to go upstairs with her to investigate. It was as the butler had said. The study door was not only locked, but it was bolted – and bolted from the inside, thus clearly indicating that there was someone within. After knocking on the door for some moments to no avail, it was felt that perhaps Wilberforce had fallen ill and was in no fit state to withdraw the bolt. With Mrs Wilberforce’s permission, Jack Stavely broke the door down. And what a tragic sight met their eyes.’

  ‘Describe this tragic sight.’

  ‘Lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood was the master of the house. Near to his body was a long-bladed knife. The man was dead.’

  Darke rubbed his hands with glee. ‘Fascinating. One assumes he died as a result of being stabbed.’

  ‘There was just one knife wound to the stomach.’

  ‘A pretty puzzle, Edward. How could the murderer leave the room if it was bolted on the inside?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘There is no suggestion that this was an elaborate suicide?’

  The policeman shook his head. ‘Practically it is possible, I suppose, but it would take tremendous courage to stab oneself in the stomach in such a way. However, I am certain that it was not suicide. There was no reason for him to take his life. Life was very good for Laurence Wilberforce. I’ve checked both his medical records and his financial situation. He was very healthy in both departments. And besides, suicide was just not Wilberforce’s way.’

  ‘Well, let’s hear the end of this captivating tale.’

  ‘The Yard was summoned and I was assigned to the case. Before I arrived, Jack Stavely discovered one of the visitors’ coats smeared with fresh blood. It was still damp. It turned out that the coat belonged to Richard Armstrong. Stavely immediately accused Armstrong of the murder. Sergeant Grey had to restrain him from attacking Armstrong. Mrs Wilberforce then showed us a letter her husband had received from Armstrong, in which veiled threats were made to Wilberforce. He said he needed more time to pay his debts, adding something like … ‘if you are intent on breaking me on the wheel in this matter, the consequences will be far the worse for you.’

  ‘Nicely phrased. So on these two pieces of evidence – a smear of blood and an angry letter – you arrested Armstrong for the murder of Laurence Wilberforce.’

  ‘I had no alternative. Sometimes one has to do things one doesn’t believe in, especially as a public servant. But the more I’ve considered the matter, the less convinced I am that Armstrong is the guilty party. But I don’t know why. I think the key to the whole problem is how the murder was committed.’

  ‘Indeed. My very thought, too. Let us go back to this study for a moment. Describe it to me.’

  ‘It is a small room, some ten feet square. There was a fireplace, with a fire burning in the grate. The chimney aperture was too narrow to allow access.’

  ‘Even for a child?’

  Thornton gaped. He hadn’t thought of that. ‘Even a child,’ he said at length.

  ‘Window?’

  ‘There was no window and no ceiling trap. We’ve had the carpet up and moved the desk and bookcase, which were the only pieces of furniture placed against a wall.’

  ‘So in essence what we have is a sealed box with a door.’

  ‘Yes. And that was bolted from the inside.’

  ‘A very pretty puzzle indeed, Inspector Thornton. I thank you for bringing it to my notice.’

  ‘But can you solve it?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Darke gave his companion a lazy grin. ‘All one needs to do is to view the problem from a different angle.’ With great care he lifted the sleeping cat from his lap and placed it down on the rug before the fire. It stirred fitfully in its slumbers and then, shifting its position slightly, returned to its feline dreams. ‘Sorry, Persephone, my friend,’ he murmured gently, ‘but I have to leave you now.’ Swilling the remainder of his whisky down, he turned to his visitor with enthusiasm. ‘What say you, Edward? I think it best if we visit the scene of crime together; then we can really get to grips with this mystery.’

  The two men decided to walk from Darke’s town house in Manchester Square to Curzon Street. ‘The sharp autumnal air will revitalise the brain cells,’ Darke observed as George, his manservant, helped him on with his overcoat.


  Although it was only just after noon, the November day was already darkening, and the fog that earlier had begun to disperse was now thickening and closing in once more, cloaking the city in a bleary haze. Their fellow pedestrians loomed as dark silhouetted phantoms before them. It was the sort of weather that Darke liked, and he felt at home in its sooty embrace.

  ‘Tell me about Wilberforce’s wife, Beatrice,’ he said, as Thornton fell into step with him. ‘Was she very upset when she found her husband?’

  ‘Naturally, she was distressed.’

  ‘But this distress quickly turned to anger.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, when the blood was discovered on Armstrong’s coat, you said she very promptly produced the letter with the well-phrased threat, determined to prove that he was the culprit. Her husband’s murderer.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So the lady was able to repress her grief sufficiently to retrieve this missive, one which strengthens the guilt of Armstrong. All which suggests that anger, rather than grief, was governing her actions. What do you know of their marriage?’

  ‘There was very little gossip about it. They have been married for twenty-two years and have no children. It was rumoured that in the early days Laurence Wilberforce was something of a ladies’ man, but…’

  ‘Age cools the ardour, eh? I met the man once. A cold fish, as I recall. There was no humour or joie de vivre in his demeanour.’

  ‘A business man.’

  Darke laughed heartily. ‘Precisely – you put your finger on it, Edward. The concerns of profit and loss place a handcuff on your soul.’

  ‘Do you suspect Mrs Wilberforce of the murder?’

  ‘No more than Armstrong, I suppose,’ said Darke. ‘In one sense she is the natural beneficiary: she loses a humourless husband and inherits his wealth. Motives enough, you will agree.’

  Edward Thornton fell silent. An image of Beatrice Wilberforce flashed into his mind. A small, slender woman in her late forties, with her blonde hair turning grey. Her pale, rather pinched face had once been girlishly pretty but now it was set ready, eager almost, for old age. Did she have the determination and malevolence to carry out the cold-blooded murder of her husband and then implicate Armstrong? Well, even if she did, how did she do it? That problem remained.