‘An interesting case,’ he finally admitted as we passed through Bloomsbury. ‘A series of coincidences, no doubt. But what if they were not?’
We proceeded to amuse ourselves with a kind of intellectual banter, trying to apply theories of historical materialism to what we had heard that afternoon. My friend then suggested that, perhaps, the new and controversial ideas of evolution could be related to this ‘curse’.
‘His class is dying out, after all,’ my colleagues reasoned.
‘You’re surely not proposing that, somehow, one branch of a social class is somehow spontaneously accelerating its own extinction?’ I retorted. ‘I wonder what Mr Darwin would think of that.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of him, but rather of the work of Pierre Trémaux.’
My friend had recently become besotted with this French naturalist who maintained that evolution was governed by geological and chemical changes in the soil and manifested itself in distinct national characteristics. I had no time for this Frenchman’s far-fetched notions and did not hesitate in expressing my doubts to my esteemed friend.
‘His theories are preposterous!’ I exclaimed. ‘No, no, not preposterous,’ my colleague insisted. ‘They are elemental, my dear Engels.’
When we arrived at Greek Street for a meeting of the General Council of the International Working Men’s Association, our thoughts turned to the business of that evening and no more mention was made of our young nobleman and his family ‘curse’. Except when one of the delegates brought up the proposal that ‘All men who have the duty of representing working-class groups should be workers themselves’, hastily adding with a deferential nod in the direction of my colleague, ‘with the exception of Citizen Marx here, who has devoted his life to the triumph of the working class’; and my friend muttered to me: ‘Well, they should have seen me hobnobbing with the aristocracy this afternoon.’ But the very next morning, when we went to call upon Beckworth at his house in Mayfair, we found a police constable posted at the front door and we were informed that the young lord had died, having fallen down the stairs and broken his neck.
We were ushered into the hallway of the house and greeted by an officer in plain clothes.
‘Inspector Bucket of the Detective,’ he announced and took out a large black pocket book with a band around it. He produced a pencil, licked it, and ungirdled his notebook as a prelude to interrogating us both as to the movements of the young Beckworth the day before. Neither myself nor Marx has ever had much reason to trust a gendarme of any colour, particularly those who go about in mufti, as police spies and agents provocateurs are wont to do. But this Bucket displayed none of the underhand furtiveness one associates with such fellows. Indeed he had an altogether affable manner, if a peculiarly directed energy and purpose in his questioning. Oft-times a fat forefinger of his would wag before his face, not at us, but rather at himself as if in some form of communication. This digit seemed to have a life and intelligence all of its own and Bucket looked to it as his informant.
We learned in the course of our interview that Lord Beckworth had been found dead at the front of the main staircase that morning by the parlour maid. The upstairs rooms were in disarray and it appeared that a great quantity of alcohol and a certain amount of laudanum had been consumed. The butler Parsons was missing and his whereabouts unknown. There was one very strange clue to the death of the young lord: a small green flower, a buttonhole perhaps, was found clasped in his hand.
Marx seemed very taken by the scientific approach of the ‘detective-officer’ and at the end of the questioning turned to Bucket and said:
‘If I can be of any assistance in this investigation, do let me know.’
Bucket’s finger twitched thoughtfully.
‘I certainly will, sir,’ he replied jovially. ‘I certainly will.’
‘Why did you say that?’ I demanded of my friend when we were away from the house. ‘We certainly don’t want to have much to do with the police, do we?’
‘My dear Engels, I have a strange fascination with this case and feel sure I could apply my own skills and methods in investigating it.’
‘But Marx, what possible qualifications do you have in the field of criminology?’
‘I have spent my life trying to solve the greatest crime committed by and against humanity. Surely I can bring some of this intelligence to bear on what, in comparison, is a mere misdemeanour.’
He was, of course, referring to his definitive work on the political economy. His great case, if you like. But I feared that this was yet another excuse for him to be diverted from his historic task. Decades had passed since its outset and yet he had only completed the first part of Capital. Alas, I have grown used to so many excuses for the non-completion of the work. I had no idea why his great mind might be stimulated in pursuing this particular distraction, what was to become known as ‘The Case of the Ten Lords a-Leaping’, but I suggested to him that it was perhaps the supposed supernatural aspect of it that provoked him so.
‘You may be somewhat affronted by the use of phantasmagoria,’ I chided him. ‘But wasn’t it you yourself that described communism as a spectre haunting Europe?’
‘Now, now,’ my friend reproached me. ‘Let us stick to the facts. But first let us retire into this tavern here.’
‘Isn’t it a bit early?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he whispered furtively. ‘But I fear we are being followed.’
My colleague and I had long been sensitive to the attention of police spies and government agents. Once safely inside the pub there was a brief appraisal as to who our pursuer might be in the pay of. My friend was of the opinion that his movements were far too subtle to be that of a Prussian.
‘You mean that he might be from Scotland?’ I demanded.
‘Perhaps,’ muttered Marx, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
‘Then that is all the more reason for staying away from this unpleasant business. We must not unnecessarily provoke the attentions of any government institution.’
But Marx was having none of it. It has been my experience that despite his rather chaotic approach to his work, once my friend becomes obsessed with something it is invariably impossible to dissuade him from a complete involvement in it.
‘Now,’ he went on. ‘The manservant Parsons, he seems under suspicion, does he not?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And did you notice anything strange about the butler?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In his appearance. Would you say he was English?’
I remember the swarthy looks of Parsons, a peculiar accent.
‘No,’ I replied.
‘Then what?’
‘Er, Jewish?’ I ventured tentatively, knowing of my friend’s sensitivities.
‘I thought so at first, yes. But did you notice the strange tie-pin that he wore?’
‘I can’t say that I did, no.’
‘A curious device. I’ve seen the emblem before. A black M embossed on a red background. I’ve seen it struck on medallions and tokens commemorating Garibaldi’s “Thousand”.’
‘You mean Parsons is an Italian?’
‘Yes. And I suggest that Parsons is not his real name. Here is my theory: he was a Red Shirt with Garibaldi in the triumphant success in Sicily. After the defeat at Aspromonte, he goes into exile, and like so many of the “Thousand” finds himself an émigré in London. There he enters into the service of Lord Beckworth and adopts the name Parsons.’