“So it was she who told you about Giovanni Fantino?”
“Yes, Mr. Didier. She was sure of his guilt,” she replied quietly. “He believed my father had stood in the way of his receiving leading roles. Only he, he claimed, could effectively play Othello or Eugene Aram.”
“How old would he have been then?”
“He was about twenty-five. I try hard to feel sorry for him, for he was crazed out of his mind. He killed my father on his way home from the theatre. He was seen with blood all over his clothes, so my mother was told, and he disappeared that night. My mother made investigations of her own and confirmed it before we left for Somerset.”
As he left, Auguste considered the possibility that Fantino might be working here again, buried deep in the Italian community in Southwark or east or west London. There were several such communities. Their cuisine however seemed to consist of endless strands of tasteless spaghetti or macaroni buried under tomato sauce, or else a sort of porridge made with rice called risotto. Auguste took the view that meat, fish, eggs, even cheese should live in partnership with sauces. He did not approve of their being totally dependent on them in order to be edible, and decided to postpone his investigation of Fantino until last.
The Reverend Bertrand Watkins, living in Epsom, seemed an attractive alternative, and the likelihood of his cooking spaghetti in his rural vicarage was very small. Mr. Watkins’ proffered refreshment presented a far different problem, however. His cook had not yet understood that cakes should dance like soufflés and not lie like suet puddings upon the stomach. Nevertheless — and despite the chance that he was a murderer — the now elderly clergyman seemed a likeable host.
“My dear sir,” he explained to Auguste, “it was many years ago, and not an incident that I care to recall. That beautiful young woman killed in her prime by a madman — and one of my own calling. A great tragedy.”
The distressed gentleman had been very fond, so Auguste couldn’t help remembering, of tragic young ladies. This particular crime was one of his favourite orations in the Strand; at some stage the distressed gentleman must have played in The Duchess of Malfi — a fairground version perhaps — for Auguste distinctly remembered a mournful “Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle; she died young” concluding Phelps’s dramatic rendering of Miss Flower’s death.
“I believe you were the only witness who clearly saw his face?” he asked the Reverend Watkins.
“The young man ran up Southampton Street, into Covent Garden, and then St. Paul’s church,” came the gentle reply. “The crowd following him believed wrongly that he had then run out into the churchyard, and thence to freedom. I remained in the church, however, thinking he had sought sanctuary. I too was mistaken, but nevertheless I suddenly came face to face with him as he dashed out of a side chapel and back into Covent Garden. There he disappeared in the crowds. I gave my statement to the police and returned to my living in Lower Potwell.”
“Did you ever see Mr. Phelps in London? He sometimes begged as an impoverished clergyman.”
The Reverend Watkins smiled. “Alas, I am in no position to give alms to bogus clergyman when I could legitimately beg for them myself if I chose. We clergy are not well paid.”
Could the Reverend Watkins really be the sweet elderly parson he appeared? On the journey back to London, the distressed gentleman sitting mentally at Auguste’s side seemed to have no doubt. He was vigorously shaking his head.
As the train puffed into Canterbury station with a triumphant belch of steam, Auguste was looking forward to his last visit. So far he had apparently achieved little, but it was remarkable what could come of the most unlikely ingredients, and he was hopeful of his last appointment. The distressed gentleman seemed to be determined to accompany him on this journey, too, and indeed, in these circumstances, Auguste could hardly not bear him in mind. His most splendid rhetoric had frequently issued forth over the ghastly contents of the locked room and the skeleton found therein. His performance of this story had seemed to lean heavily on the well-known play of Maria Marten and the Red Barn for its emotions. The disappearance of poor Maria at the pitiless hands of her lover lent itself admirably to his story of the missing bride.
“Oh Heaven, deliver the murderer into the hands of justice,” the distressed gentleman had so often roared with tears in his eyes for the benefit of his audience. “Show no mercy for the bloody deed. Thy father will revenge thee, child.” His trembling voice was lowered for these last words.
Sir William Taylor, brother of the original owner of the mysterious locked room, lived in an elegant Georgian house on the outskirts of the city, and Auguste amused himself in its morning room studying the splendid oil paintings as he waited some considerable time for his host. He was admiring one of a seated young lady in a white dress with elegant draperies, when Sir William eventually arrived. He seemed in his late seventies, much older than the lady in the portrait, and not the most benevolent-looking philanthropist Auguste had ever seen.
“Your daughter, sir?”
“My second wife, Alice,” Sir William grunted. “My first wife died abroad in the ‘sixties. That’s her there.” He pointed to an inferior oil painting tucked away behind the door. A meek-looking lady looked somehow lost surrounded by her enormous blue crinoline, with one hand displaying an ornate wedding ring resting on the family Bible. “Now, what are you here for?” he barked. “That house in the Strand, I suppose.”
“On behalf of a murdered man—”
A sharp look. “My dear sir,” he interrupted, “if you are another of those ghost hunters, pray speak to the new owners. I saw no ghost while I lived there, I heard no ghost, and furthermore I have no interest whatsoever in any ghost anywhere. Clear?”
“A Mr. Montague Phelps was murdered on Tuesday night.”
“Never heard of him.”
“A distressed gentleman.”
Sir William looked surprised and then began to laugh. “You don’t mean that scallywag who used to beg outside my door in the Strand until I saw him on his way? Tall fellow in his forties, looked like Mr. Micawber without the grin.”
“It could well be.”
“Why come to me? It’s ten years since I sold that house.”
“You heard about the corpse discovered in the room after the sale?”
He looked taken aback. “Of course. Joseph’s doing. Poor fellow. Out of his mind. Brooded on his wrongs, pursued the poor woman, killed her, and put her in there. Always weird, was Joseph.”
“You were never tempted to open the door when you lived there, sir?”
A furious reply to this. “I was legally bound not to, and I didn’t. And about this fellow Phelps: If you’re implying what I think, Mr. Didier, I give to the poor. I don’t go round murdering distressed gentlemen — or distressed wives.”
Auguste decided to leave the house, with Sir William in full agreement. Whatever he might say, Auguste concluded, he was a fit man, despite his age, and one whose jaw suggested that no one and nothing would stand in his way. Especially not distressed gentlemen.
“The portrait showed a fine wedding ring.” Auguste produced a sketch he had made of it from memory on the journey home and handed it to Egbert Rose after he had completed the rest of his investigations. “Perhaps the same ring might have been found on the corpse?”
The inspector had not been pleased to hear of Auguste’s endeavours and was only partly mollified by interest in what he had discovered. “I’ll look into it,” he grunted. “What about your hunt for the Italian?”
Auguste produced his ace. The distressed gentleman would have swept off his hat and bowed in deep appreciation at such a coup — holding out the hat, of course, for tangible recognition. Auguste was particularly proud of this coup, especially as it had involved no visits to Italian communities where he might be forced to partake of their cuisine. “There is an Italian man of middle years working in Romanos. He speaks excellent English and could well by his manner have been an actor.”