Did you—?’
‘Strewth! What are you up to, you devious man? You’re up to something—’
‘Listen, Mr Box,’ said Fiske, throwing the book down. ‘You were called out to investigate a murder at the Roman ruins in Priory Gate Street yesterday. Well, I was out and about in Clerkenwell, because that’s how I work: hovering around places where things are likely to happen. So when you’d gone, I went and found my own sources of information, and got the whole story out of them.’
‘What sources?’
Billy Fiske smiled, and laid an index finger on the side of his nose. He gave Box a knowing wink.
‘The toilers and labourers of this great nation, Mr Box, the workmen sweltering in those huts beside the excavation. Covered in dust, they were, and dried up with the heat. Well, I sent over the way to the Harvester, for a gallon of beer. The dry toilers were ever so grateful, Mr Box. They told me all about the poor young man with his head bashed in, and they told me about the honey –oh, yes, they told me about that. And they told me about the token, and what had been engraved on it. Very interesting, that was. Apparently a constable left on duty there had shared a can of tea with them earlier, and told them the whole story.’
‘And so—’
‘And so I came down here early this morning. Somebody in King James’s Rents told me that you were going to Carshalton – no, don’t ask me who it was, because I won’t tell you. I got here two hours before you did, Arnold, and made my way out to the Royal Albert Cement Works. Plenty of dry toilers there! I went equipped with a bag of half-crowns, and came away knowing everything about poor Mr Barnes, flighty Mrs Barnes, pathetic Miss Barnes, and ambitious Mr Harper.’
Billy Fiske finished his beer, and set the glass down on the table.
‘And I learnt all about the mercury in the dead man’s mouth, and the little token with the word corax engraved on it. That’s Latin for raven. Intriguing, isn’t it?’
Arnold Box retrieved the token from his waistcoat pocket, and laid it in front of the reporter.
‘There it is, Billy. It’s almost identical in shape and size to the one we found in the dead man’s pocket in Clerkenwell. What are you up to? I can’t quite fathom what you’re going to do.’
‘Well, you see, Arnold,’ said Fiske, ‘from a reporter’s point of view two dead men with their heads knocked in are not very newsworthy. Sad, yes, but not big news. But if I weave a sinister tale of slaughter-sites near Roman encampments, or scenes of murder lying on Roman roads, and then link those two murders to ancient rituals of the god Mithras, involving esoteric sacrifices, secret societies, and rumours of hidden vice – well, then I’ve got a really satisfactory story. The Graphic will love it. It’s sensation that sells our kind of paper.’
‘But it’s all tosh, Billy—’
‘Yes, I know it is, but you can see the use of it, can’t you? That’s why you let me see that token just now. Some account of theClerkenwell murder has appeared in all today’s morning papers, as you’d expect, but to us gentlemen of the press it’s just another murder. But once someone like me turns these two murders into a press sensation, then people will want to come forward with stories of what they saw, or what they heard; and other parties will try to hide their connection with either of the dead men, and make their suspicious motives only too obvious in doing so.’
‘You’re a clever, man, Billy,’ said Box. ‘I’ve never thought otherwise . I’m inclined to give you a free rein on this matter. I’m catching the two-seventeen to Victoria, so I can’t stay to talk further. It’s a peculiar affair altogether. First honey, and now mercury – I’m going to need all the help I can get to make head or tail of this business.’
In the ground-floor study of his house in Lowndes Square, Sir Charles Wayneflete waited for his chess opponent to make a move.
‘Strewth! What are you up to, you devious man? You’re up to something—’
‘Listen, Mr Box,’ said Fiske, throwing the book down. ‘You were called out to investigate a murder at the Roman ruins in Priory Gate Street yesterday. Well, I was out and about in Clerkenwell, because that’s how I work: hovering around places where things are likely to happen. So when you’d gone, I went and found my own sources of information, and got the whole story out of them.’
‘What sources?’
Billy Fiske smiled, and laid an index finger on the side of his nose. He gave Box a knowing wink.
‘The toilers and labourers of this great nation, Mr Box, the workmen sweltering in those huts beside the excavation. Covered in dust, they were, and dried up with the heat. Well, I sent over the way to the Harvester, for a gallon of beer. The dry toilers were ever so grateful, Mr Box. They told me all about the poor young man with his head bashed in, and they told me about the honey –oh, yes, they told me about that. And they told me about the token, and what had been engraved on it. Very interesting, that was. Apparently a constable left on duty there had shared a can of tea with them earlier, and told them the whole story.’
‘And so—’
‘And so I came down here early this morning. Somebody in King James’s Rents told me that you were going to Carshalton – no, don’t ask me who it was, because I won’t tell you. I got here two hours before you did, Arnold, and made my way out to the Royal Albert Cement Works. Plenty of dry toilers there! I went equipped with a bag of half-crowns, and came away knowing everything about poor Mr Barnes, flighty Mrs Barnes, pathetic Miss Barnes, and ambitious Mr Harper.’
Billy Fiske finished his beer, and set the glass down on the table.
‘And I learnt all about the mercury in the dead man’s mouth, and the little token with the word corax engraved on it. That’s Latin for raven. Intriguing, isn’t it?’
Arnold Box retrieved the token from his waistcoat pocket, and laid it in front of the reporter.
‘There it is, Billy. It’s almost identical in shape and size to the one we found in the dead man’s pocket in Clerkenwell. What are you up to? I can’t quite fathom what you’re going to do.’
‘Well, you see, Arnold,’ said Fiske, ‘from a reporter’s point of view two dead men with their heads knocked in are not very newsworthy. Sad, yes, but not big news. But if I weave a sinister tale of slaughter-sites near Roman encampments, or scenes of murder lying on Roman roads, and then link those two murders to ancient rituals of the god Mithras, involving esoteric sacrifices, secret societies, and rumours of hidden vice – well, then I’ve got a really satisfactory story. The Graphic will love it. It’s sensation that sells our kind of paper.’
‘But it’s all tosh, Billy—’
‘Yes, I know it is, but you can see the use of it, can’t you? That’s why you let me see that token just now. Some account of theClerkenwell murder has appeared in all today’s morning papers, as you’d expect, but to us gentlemen of the press it’s just another murder. But once someone like me turns these two murders into a press sensation, then people will want to come forward with stories of what they saw, or what they heard; and other parties will try to hide their connection with either of the dead men, and make their suspicious motives only too obvious in doing so.’
‘You’re a clever, man, Billy,’ said Box. ‘I’ve never thought otherwise . I’m inclined to give you a free rein on this matter. I’m catching the two-seventeen to Victoria, so I can’t stay to talk further. It’s a peculiar affair altogether. First honey, and now mercury – I’m going to need all the help I can get to make head or tail of this business.’
In the ground-floor study of his house in Lowndes Square, Sir Charles Wayneflete waited for his chess opponent to make a move.
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