09 | The Web Unravels
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"The police came to my house!" Mrs Latimer cried the moment the Thorntons' drawing room door closed behind Havers who had announced her. Her unguarded outcry was elicited from the fact that only Margaret and her husband were present to receive her. "They asked me to help with their investigation. Have you been telling them about me?"
This time she looked the part of banker's wife in her smart day costume in shades of blue and green, with high-necked bodice and military details—if it wasn't for her marked state of agitation, entirely at odds with any picture of serene femininity.
"Have you spoken with your husband yet?" Thornton said instead of answering her question.
"How could I?" Mrs Latimer exclaimed, wringing her hands. "He would never forgive me."
"What kind of assistance did the police request from you, when they came to see you?" Margaret said.
"They showed me an old soiled and torn neckstock and asked if I recognised it as Mr Alban's." She cast an accusing look at her host. "Did you tell them that we were involved at some point?—or why did they come to me?"
"The police investigation into Mr Alban's death has been reopened," Thornton said rationally. "This means that the verdict from the inquest has been overturned. I had to tell them what I knew of the case; I didn't, however, tell them about the nature of your former attachment to him."
"You only went as far as telling them that I spied on my husband's bank clients on his behalf!—I gather, it wasn't difficult for them to guess about the rest." She laughed hysterically. "So much for keeping my secrets!"
"I'm sorry, Mrs Latimer, but there are no secrets in what has become a murder investigation," Thornton sternly reminded her. "For the time being Inspector Mason has agreed to keep your involvement under wraps..."
"Has he?—how very generous of him!" Her voice was dripping with scorn.
"... and he's prepared to continue to do so, provided you'll prove to be cooperative."
"What else does he want from me? I already told him that I recognised the cravat... What I didn't tell the police was that I helped Benedict choose it; it came in a set of three. He loved these floral patterns." Her voice broke, and her face turned from scorn to misery. "How did it come to this?—and what am I to do?" she sobbed.
"Mrs Latimer... Eleanor," Margaret said softly. "Believe me when I say that I think you more sinned against than sinning—" She rose from her chair, went over to Eleanor Latimer, and pressed her to sit with her on the chaise longue. "—but you must help the police in order to rid yourself of that stain on your conscience. Of the guilt that you are feeling," she added softly, taking the other woman's hand. "And then—if not before—you must speak with your husband! How could he not forgive you if you are prepared to do the right thing?"
Mrs Latimer quietly cried into her handkerchief for a while, then, with sudden resolve, she dabbed at her eyes and straightened her shoulders. "Tell me, Mr Thornton," she said, "what am I supposed to do?"
"First of all I need to know if those men are still watching your house," he said.
"They are. They just stand there every single day!" Her voice rose a notch before she checked her agitation and said more calmly, "They don't usually follow me. Therefore I believe that they are paid to intimidate me into remaining silent; they're not actually after me—yet."
"If you agree to my proposition you'll have plain-clothes policemen watching them, and by extension guard you, as of today. In return you must start a rumour, or rather, hint at things when in society."
"What kind of things?"
"That it has come to your ears that Mr Alban's death wasn't an accident; that you have it on good authority. But, by all means, keep vague about any details, and don't breathe a word of your own involvement!"
"I wouldn't!"
"Start at the next charity meeting when all the ladies are present. Then try to casually mention it with your husband's friends; and in time it will reach the right ears—"
"To what effect?"
"The persons in command of the actual facts will believe that you are sending a message; that you are giving them a warning to back off. However, this is not what I—or the police, for that matter—think that they will do; they've gone too far to risk exposure. So, they will feel threatened and will try to make you understand in no uncertain ways that it will be in your own best interests to return to keeping quiet."
"So, I'll exchange fearing for my life to actually risking my life?" Mrs Latimer asked, incredulous. "You must be joking!"
"There is a risk," Thornton admitted soberly. "I won't keep that from you. It is most likely those two thugs, the ones that are watching you, who will rise to the bait; and they may try to get hold of you. But when they do, there will be plenty of police to intervene."
"I cannot say that I like the idea," Mrs Latimer said. "Not one bit of it!... It scares me even to think about it! And yet—" She hesitated, but then soldiered on. "—in order to be able to look my husband in the eye again, I shall do it. How am I to proceed?"
"First of all by hiring another footman," Thornton said. "Let me give you the details—"
"I've hated doing this," Margaret said quietly, once Mrs Latimer had left them. "The poor woman!"
"I know and I'm sorry, Margaret," Thornton admitted. "And yet I'm unapologetic about the fact that, at times, extreme measures need to be taken to catch a criminal."
"Do you think it will work?"
"There's nothing certain," he admitted. "We are making many assumptions by setting up this trap; and they may yet turn out to be wrong... and, yes, there is a risk."
"Would you want me to take such a risk, John?"
"Christ, no!" he exclaimed. "But then, I've never claimed to be anything but biased when it comes to you."
"Yet you are prepared to let her take every risk... Couldn't it have been anyone else rather than a defenceless woman to play decoy?"
"We can't get any more people involved, or else Foster may believe that the information is already spreading; and rather than employ—what we think are—his trusty henchmen, he might yet withdraw them and make them lie low. Not only would the police likely never be able to find them, but they would also escape justice. They must catch them red-handed in order to have enough leverage, so that they can dare interrogate them. They are the only link to Foster we've got—and therefore those thugs must admit to working for him."
"I never really perceived your relentless side, John," Margaret said pensively, "although you told me of it yourself. 'Hard but fair'—wasn't it?"
"Does it frighten you?"
"It is who you are," she simply said. Then she smiled at his look of alarm. "But it is not all that you are; or rather, there is so much more to you besides... For your own sake I wished you'd still be a magistrate; a Justice of the Peace. Lady Justice's shield," she said, adding softly, "and sword."
Once he had sent word to Inspector Mason that Mrs Latimer had agreed to cooperate, Thornton was out of it and left in the dark, just like any other civilian. He assumed that, for the present at least, not even Watson as the local magistrate was kept informed; the whole operation was just too sensitive to take unnecessary risks.
His only source of information, for the time being, were the Milton gossipmongers, both above and below stairs.
With none of his immediate family a part of their group, Thornton never knew when or if Mrs Latimer had started spreading her insinuations amongst her friends at the Milton Ladies Charity. The idea had been, of course, that Mrs Foster would take notice and, through her, word would reach her husband.
Then, in the middle of December, Margaret's maid Sarah came to her mistress with news she had picked up in the downstairs kitchen—Cook herself had been to the market that morning and she always came back with the juiciest gossip—that the young Mrs Latimer had been assaulted in the street outside her own house! Cook apparently had much to say about the state of affairs in the more prosperous Milton boroughs, wondering loudly where the world had come to if not even the wife of a banker was safe. However, it soon transpired that, thanks to her brave new footman and some valiant passersby, Mrs Latimer had suffered nothing worse than a dreadful fright. The thugs had been taken into custody—and Milton was, of course, a great deal better for it. Still, if such things were possible, it wouldn't be long now before they were all murdered in their beds!
Margaret faithfully reported the news back to her husband; and it was indeed the first inkling he had got of it. He, in turn, thought it expedient to pay the Masters Club a visit that night. In order to kill two birds with one stone, he called on Makinson to ask the younger man, who from inbred diffidence had as yet to become a regular, to join him.
The halls of the Masters Club were abuzz with the news by the time they arrived. Old Latimer, of course, was not present. How could he have left his wife, even for an evening, so soon after such an ordeal? He couldn't!—and therefore the members were deprived of hearing all the details straight from the horse's mouth.
The hubbub in the club rooms couldn't quite conceal that the ranks of members were sadly diminished of late; Slickson had stopped coming. Rumour had it that he was packing up and leaving for America. Harkness, with a criminal charge hanging over his head, had been expelled; he would be standing trial in Liverpool at the next quarter sessions. This felt like a twist of fate to Thornton, who had the image of the interior of the Kirkdale County Sessions House and the view from the bar imprinted upon his mind. At times, the memory still made him break out in a cold sweat.
Surprisingly, Brown was there, sitting in a quiet corner and nursing a snifter of brandy. He was a rare guest at the club. Foster was nowhere to be seen, although he was believed to have been staying in Milton lately; but the reason for his absence soon became apparent when Watson arrived, all puffed up and important as the magistrate in command of all the facts—which he didn't hesitate to share with his peers.
"Foster's being interrogated by the police as we speak," he announced.
A babble of excited, indignant, and plain baffled voices followed his words. Thornton, however, couldn't believe his ears for different reasons; and he briefly wondered if Watson was already in his cups upon arrival.
"It is true; Foster was summoned to the police station by two constables, and he is being questioned in connection with the assault on Mrs Latimer and—" He stopped dead as his brain was evidently catching up with his mouth, and added blunderingly, "—and m-more."
This pronouncement, of course, set the minds of his listeners in a whirr, and Watson was peppered with questions, to which he answered with increasingly bad grace.
"Sorry, no comment... Can't risk to stymie an ongoing investigation... I daresay you'll hear the rest of it soon enough..."
"If you can't keep it to yourself, you shouldn't have come here on a night like this, Robert," Thornton said scathingly, once he caught his brother-in-law alone. He thought that he detected a whiff of spirits in the other man's breath.
As soon as Watson saw himself confronted, the swagger returned. "Well, I haven't got your experience when it comes to criminal investigations. After all, I've never been standing on the wrong side of the bar." He smirked.
It was a low blow, yet Thornton just looked at him in quiet disgust. "I won't pick a fight with you, Robert. Go home and get sober."
"Don't treat me like an imbecile," Watson growled, but Thornton was already turning his back. "You're a pompous ass, John!"
Weaving his way to the exit Thornton didn't bother to look back. He would give his brother-in-law a piece of his mind at a more opportune time.
A couple of days later, Mason came to visit his former boss Thornton. It was a courtesy call to keep the man who had been instrumental in getting the case reopened au courant with the latest developments, despite the fact that the Marlborough Mills master hadn't any actual claim on receiving privileged information.
"In the end we had to take recourse to a gamble when it came to linking those henchmen to the premises off Mill Lane where Alban way held. Fortunately, they didn't call our bluff and unwittingly confirmed their involvement. 'It's all on that moneybags Foster,' was what they stated for the record."
"Not very precise, though."
"They are tough customers, and they haven't spoken to us since. However, together with all the circumstantial evidence we already had on Foster, it was enough to call him in for questioning and to get a warrant both to search his house and see into his accounts. And we are still looking for witnesses that may confirm either of their, or all their, presence on the premises. But it's a long shot after so many months."
"Have you found probable cause yet?—the reason Foster resorted to blackmail?"
"Gambling debts," Mason said. "Seems Foster has fallen into bad habits in Town—telling by the IOUs we found. It is quite inconceivable how much money can be wasted away by a profligate gambler in a single night."
Thornton nodded mutely, deep in thought. So, the similarities between Colin Foster and George Thornton hadn't ended on the surface. But, if nothing else, his own father must have felt shame and remorse about his conduct in the end. He wished he could add, 'and he hadn't hurt others for his own gain', but he couldn't—not with what his death had done to his mother Hannah, young Fanny, and to himself!
"Has he confessed?" he asked at last.
"Yes, we've got a full confession... and it should serve to save his head. Foster admitted to the entire blackmail scheme and how he came to hold sway over Benedict Alban; he said he met Alban in London through his wife. Apparently, Alban himself confided in Foster about his—" He hesitated for the briefest of moments. "—former affair with Mrs Eleanor Nashby—now Mrs Latimer—, because he was loath to come across her again at the new Milton Ladies Charity he was going to support with his expertise. This information, in connection with his monetary straits, eventually made Foster come up with the plan for the investment fraud."
"Well, it was an intricate scheme, and he might have pulled it off with no-one the wiser. But why, in the Lord's name, kill Alban?"
"Foster said that Alban, when he realised that he had helped cheat half of Milton out of their money, had a twinge of conscience and confronted Foster, trying to convince him to rectify matters. They had an almighty row, ending with Alban throwing into Foster's face that he would publicly confess to the fraud even if it cost him his freedom and reputation..."
"... and so Foster had him abducted," Thornton concluded.
"Precisely!—and that was when the plan went awry. Foster claimed that the abduction was simply meant to frighten Alban into keeping quiet; and he thought that a couple of days in a dank basement, locked up, gagged, and bound, would serve the purpose. However, during the first night, Alban managed to escape his room; but on his way out he was cornered by the watchdogs the henchmen were keeping on the premises, and his leg was mauled. Unable to run, he was caught and brought back.
"Foster came by again on the third night to tell his paid thugs to release Alban; that's when they told him that their prisoner was in a bad way. Foster himself took a look at the man and, so he said, was appalled at the state of Alban's leg. He swears that he told his men to abandon their hostage in a quiet alley, so that Alban might find help for his injured leg—instead, it appears they chucked him over the bridge. Foster insists he knew nothing of it."
"Do you believe him?"
"I'm inclined to," Mason replied, pensive. "Foster's entire plan footed on the assumption that everyone would keep their mouths shut rather than face public disgrace... and, if it wasn't for Alban and his conscience, he would have succeeded."
"So, what will happen to him?"
"Foster knows the odds and that he can't wriggle out of it. His lawyer has been smart enough to impress the dire facts upon him; and, as I said, Foster has signalled full cooperation."
"Now that it is a murder case, the trial will be referred to the assizes in February—"
"Except for blaming it all on Foster in their first statement, his erstwhile henchmen have refused to talk ever since. Therefore Foster will be a witness for the prosecution at their trial."
"What about the Browns and that unfortunate young woman who is in an illicit relationship with Henderson? Will word of it come up at the trial?—and what about Mrs Latimer?"
"The reasons for blackmailing those who didn't commit an actual crime—or whose offences haven't become public in the meantime—won't enter the record of the inquiry. There is, of course, a chance that Foster will bring it up at the trial, but I doubt it. The ladies should be safe."
"Foster himself is bound to be acquitted of actual murder, but he will serve a long prison sentence—as will Harkness; and Slickson is leaving the country," Thornton said, adding philosophically, "And so a single fraud has put all of Milton society into disarray." Softly, almost to himself, he said, "It will be interesting to see what emerges from it, once the waters have smoothed."
"Well, sir, that's it from me—" Closing his notepad Mason got ready to leave.
Thornton likewise rose to accompany him to the door. "This has been a high-profile case; I hope this means that you are in line for a promotion, inspector."
"Frankly, sir, I wouldn't count on it. My superiors have been left with egg on their face for initially closing the Alban case too quickly, as has been the coroner—and Magistrate Watson, for that matter. I may have made some powerful enemies here in Milton."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mason."
"In fact, this has made me think about my future prospects," Mason said, adding reluctantly, "May I be so bold and ask your opinion on something that has occurred to me?"
"Of course. Take a seat again, if you like—"
"Investigating on your behalf made me wonder if there might be demand in this city for the services of a private investigator—"
Thornton gave him a shrewd look. "I'd say 'yes', there would be an opening for a man with keen instincts and an inquiring mind; knowing one's turf would also be an asset. On the downside, your face is rather well-known about town, so you'd have to think about hiring others when it comes to following people—and your current superiors will definitely hate you for going freelance."
"The latter won't scare me. So, you think I should do it?"
"This is for you to decide, Mason. But I have every confidence—and I shall follow your career with interest." A sudden thought occurred to him. "In fact, I may have a first small assignment for you—"
Sir Thomas Brown-Smythe was already waiting for him in the reading room when he arrived at the Masters Club. Thornton had written to the other man and asked to meet him there, in the secure knowledge that the room was rarely used. Calling the room a library would be an exaggeration because the number of books in the club's collection was woefully small; mostly it was stacked with national newspapers and magazines. But the main reason why the room was ignored by the majority of members was the fact that drinks were frowned upon within its four walls. The club circumvented that obstacle by stocking the latest newspapers at the bar.
"About time, Thornton," Sir Thomas greeted him. The no-drinks policy was obviously grating on his temper. "Why have you called me here in all this secrecy?" He wasn't a tall man, nor did his outer form hint at the hard-nosed wholesale merchant he had been at one time—but old habits were still alive underneath the quietly elegant exterior.
"Mind if I sit?" Thornton perfunctorily asked, choosing one of the comfortable leather armchairs. "The matter is of some delicacy—"
Brown shrugged carelessly. "I have no idea what you are alluding to."
"It may be news to you that—for reasons of my own—I was seeing into Mr Alban's demise, and am therefore well informed about it and everything that eventually turned out to be connected with his death, namely the failed investment scheme several illustrious Miltonians fell prey to. My involvement started at a time when the police were still ignorant of the fact that there had been an actual crime."
"Is that so," Brown said evenly. But Thornton could tell he had the man's full attention.
"It also came to my notice that you were amongst those affected by this matter. I asked you here to reassure you that the police have no interest in following that particular angle."
"But you have," the elder man said scornfully.
"This is where you are wrong, Sir Thomas," he replied with a tight smile, ever so slightly stressing the moniker. "I am all in favour of letting bygones be bygones." He leant forward.
"But?... I believe there is a 'but' in there—"
"But I wonder if you are prepared to move on?" Thornton gave his opposite an appraising look before leaning back again, by all means making himself comfortable. "As you are probably aware, I have a daughter. She is twenty months old, and a joy to behold... Having a daughter yourself, you can probably share into the feeling. However, my daughter has been unfortunate enough to have been conceived out of wedlock—and, as of the present moment, Milton society seems unlikely to forget and forgive an innocent child such a misfortune," he said in a conversational tone of voice, adding, "Nor does it exercise leniency towards my wife—"
Brown remained obstinately silent, his face withdrawn.
"I would do anything to protect an innocent child—any child, I might add, regardless of whether my own or someone else's—from having to bear the sins of their parents. But then, I also believe in redemption, and grace. Are you familiar with this word from Scripture, Brown?—'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her'."
Thornton got up and took his hat. "A good day to you," he said and, without at backwards glance at the seated figure, he left the room.
Another, similar interview—yet rather more bluntly executed—took place in the same location on Christmas Eve. This time it was Oliver Henderson waiting for Thornton at the club. It had taken Thornton a few days longer to sent Henderson the summons than had been the case with Brown, because he had to await the results from Mason's latest investigation.
"Thornton!—It has been a while since we had occasion to talk!" Henderson exclaimed with— somewhat exaggerated—heartiness. "So, why the clandestine meeting?"
Thornton regarded his opposite for a few long moments from his superior height, until Henderson began to squirm.
"What is it, Thornton? You're making this appear rather ominous," he said, taking a brisk step back.
"Take a seat, Henderson—although this won't take long," Thornton replied and, once Henderson had sunk into a chair, he chose the same armchair he had taken with Brown. "I have information that you are a regular visitor at number twenty-six Preston Street. In fact, you are paying the rent of an establishment inhabited by one Miss Smith, and have been doing so for the last fourteen months."
"Th-this is absurd!" he spluttered.
"I also know that your illicit affair with said Miss Smith was the reason why you were coerced into joining an investment in Australian cobalt mining stocks—the very same fraudulent scheme that ruined both Slickson and Harkness."
"What do you want from me, Thornton?—money? I'm afraid there isn't much left."
"Do I look like a blackmailer for my own gain?" Thornton scoffed.
"How would I know?" Henderson exclaimed. "There have been altogether too many strange revelations in the last few months!"
"Let me assure you that I don't intend to blackmail you—as such."
"So, what is this about?"
"I have also gained information that Miss Smith is in a relationship with you not out of her own free will but from necessity. She comes from simple but respectable circumstances; and as an orphan with no family or friends to take her in and with not good enough an education to see her gainfully employed—besides being wholly untrained to be a worker—there was nothing for her to fall back on but become your mistress at just seventeen years old!" He scrutinised the other man with disgust. "How old are you, Henderson?—and have you been thinking that you are offering her a fair deal?"
"I... I don't understand—"
"Bear with me; you will understand soon enough... My proposition—and I am using the term 'proposition' only in the broadest sense—is as follows: Provide Miss Smith with a modest fortune to secure her an independent income and, if she's so inclined, to enter into a respectable marriage." He mentioned a sum that deemed him appropriate. Henderson gasped and was about to argue, but Thornton cut him short. "I daresay it is a fraction of what you squandered by investing into that bogus scheme. Once you've upheld your part in it, then, for Mrs Henderson's sake, all of this will be forgotten."
"You're a cad, Thornton!" Henderson looked at him with impotent rage.
"I'd say that it has been a pleasure doing business with you—but, truth be told, it wasn't." He rose and made for the door.
Outside he took a deep breath of cold wintery air, as if to rid himself from the stench of corruption. He briskly walked on, up the hill and across the cemetery. Once he reached the summit he stopped and looked around at the gathering clouds.
He slowly smiled; the air smelt of snow.