The Ornamental Hermit: DS Billings Victorian Mysteries, #1

CHAPTER ONE

The Wild Man of Sutton Courtenay

Clarkson sat at his desk, bent over his report, frowning with confusion. "’Ere, Billings, ’ow d’you write very ? he asked. One r or two?"

One, replied Billings who was sitting opposite him reading a book.

"You sure? Innit the same as merry? As in merry Christmas?"

I’m sure.

Clarkson was not convinced and began reading out loud from his report. "‘The man was wearing a very long red coat...’ It don’t look right," he concluded.

"It’s one r, Clarkson. Trust me."

Billings was only half-listening to his colleague. He was reading Robinson Crusoe and was currently captured by a particular phrase which he read over and over again. The phrase appeared in the passage in which Crusoe questions what it was that kept driving him from one tragedy to another: ‘It is a secret overruling decree that hurries us on to be the instruments of our own destruction. Even though it be before us we rush upon it with our eyes open.’ How truthfully that phrase rang in his mind, then. And how apt the ensuing tale proved it to be.

It were a striking coat, Billings, continued Clarkson. Went all the way down to his ankles. It had a furry collar and it were bright red. Very conspi... conspu... what’s the word I’m thinking of, Billings?

Conspicuous?

That’s the one. ’Ow do you write it?

Don’t write conspicuous.

Why not?

It’s subjective. Just write that it was long and red.

He looked just like one of them Russian warriors. You know, with the red coats and the fur hats. ’Ow do you call them, Billings? These Russian soldiers?

Cossacks?

That’s it. He looked just like a Cossack. Probably was one, come to think of it. Bloody Russians! Ain’t we got enough crime to deal with, without having to chase after foreign counterfeiters.

You’re at Scotland Yard now, Clarkson. That’s what we do.

Me feet are killing me, do you know that? I spent all day walkin’ around the bloomin’ city, shadowing me target.

Billings finally put down his book and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was ten minutes to six. His shift had ended thirty minutes ago and he had hoped he’d be able to spend a quiet hour reading his book before going back home, but Clarkson had put an end to that idea. He picked up his satchel from beneath his desk and started packing his book back into it when suddenly there was a knock on the door.

Oh, bloomin’ heck! If that’s Jack... Clarkson threw his pen down on his desk, spluttering ink all over his report.

A teenage boy opened the door and popped his head in.

You better not ’ave a message from those coppers, Clarkson cried.

I ’ave, sir, the boy replied. They’ve arrested a man. They’re asking will you come down and take a statement.

No! It’s ten minutes to six and I’m about to go home. Go back to those coppers and tell them there was no one here.

But sir, ’tis a special one, this.

Oi, hobbadehoy! Did you hear what I said?

But they say it’s the Wild Man of Sutton Courtenay.

Clarkson went quiet for a brief moment and raised an eyebrow. ’Ow do they know it’s him?

Well, it’s a rough-looking man, with a dirty beard and...

Clarkson lost interest and began cleaning the ink stains from his report with blotting paper. Sounds like another shivering jemmy to me. Tell those coppers to let him go.

But sir...

Billings saw the boy become flustered. It’s alright, Jack, he said. Someone will be down shortly.

The boy sighed with relief. Thank you, sir. He marched off, closing the door behind him.

Clarkson looked up at his colleague and frowned. I don’t believe this! I’ve been runnin’ around London all day chasing some bloomin’ Russian, and when I finally get to sit down for a few minutes... An idea occurred to him and he suddenly stopped talking. Billings, me old mate. He flashed his colleague a smile and knitted his eyebrows over his pleading blue eyes.

Billings shook his head. No, Clarkson. It was my turn yesterday and I’ve got my day off tomorrow. He put his satchel on his lap and tightened the straps.

Go on, ’ave an ’eart. It’s pork tonight. Clarkson got up from his desk and went towards him. Me rib’s waiting at ’ome for me with me sawney. The li’l ones are starvin’, waitin’ for their daddy to come ’ome. He leaned over his colleague’s desk and stared at him with those baby blue eyes of his. Be a sport, Billings, me old mate. You ain’t got nothing to do tonight, ’ave you? The Wild Man of Sutton Courtenay, Billings. Fancy that. Sounds like an interesting case for you.

Billings had never heard of the Wild Man of Sutton Courtenay. He wasn’t in the habit of perusing the papers like the other detectives did, preferring instead to read his novel whenever he got the chance. It astounded him how he had managed to acquire a reputation for being a smart, ambitious young officer within the force. He didn’t consider himself smart at all, even though he was better educated than most of his colleagues. And he certainly wasn’t ambitious. It was probably his willingness to stay on longer at work and put in the hours which led to this reputation, but of course, none of that had anything to do with ambition. He just didn’t like returning to his sombre little room in Battersea.

All right, then, he said finally.

A broad smile appeared on Clarkson’s face.

But you owe me.

OH, SERGEANT BILLINGS. It’s you, is it? PC Dwight sounded disappointed as Billings came down to the holding cells. Billings was not much liked by the uniformed men. They considered him to be arrogant. Aloof. An odd bird. Weren’t you on duty last night? he asked.

I was. Billings ignored the hostility in the constable’s tone. Who have you caught?

Oh, we got a big one, tonight. Didn’t Jack mention it?

He mentioned something about the wild man of... uh...

Sutton Courtenay, Sergeant. Brendan Lochrane, The Wild Man of Sutton Courtenay. You’ll have read all about it, no doubt.

Well, I must confess, I...

Bloomin’ heck, you bunch of dicks! I thought Detective Constable Clarkson was on duty. Hadn’t we better get him?

I’m on duty, Constable. Now, where is this man?

He’s in the cell.

Dwight un-clicked a bunch of keys from his belt and walked towards the cells. Billings followed him.

The Berkshire County Constabulary feared he’d find his way down to London and published a sketch in the police gazette . A patrol officer found him sleeping in the bushes in Battersea Park. It weren’t until he tried speaking to him that he realised who it was.

Why?

I’ll show you why. ’Ere, Jack! Help me pin the suspect down to the wall, so I can show the Sergeant.

Jack, who was sitting at the entrance of the cellar, jumped up from his seat and ran obediently towards the cell.

As Dwight unlocked the cell door, Billings caught his first glimpse of the so-called Wild Man. The man was huddled down in the corner, sitting on the cold brick floor wearing dirty rags. His hair and beard were tangled together, knotted to each other like ivy to a tree.

Alright Brendan, said Dwight as he slowly opened the door. We’re just coming in to have a look at you. Nothing to worry about.

The man didn’t react and continued to gaze at the ground, passive and docile.

You ready Jack? Dwight whispered to the boy. When I say go, you grab his right arm, got that?

Yes, sir.

Alright... go!

Dwight and Jack suddenly rushed into the cell and lunged at the man. They grabbed an arm each and stretched it out, disabling the use of his elbows. They then pulled the man up to his feet. The man screwed his face up in pain and a strange muffled roar emanated from his mouth.

Billings stood a few steps away from the cell and watched. It was an unpleasant scene to witness. A renaissance painting came to his mind (was it Rembrandt? Or Caravaggio?) of Jesus being raised on his cross.

You hold him tight now, do you hear? Dwight instructed as he attempted to prise open the man’s jaw by pushing his cheeks together with his thumb and index finger.

The man let out that agonized roar again, which made Billings wince. I say! Steady on, Constable! he called.

This is a dangerous man, Sergeant. With the man’s mouth finally opened, Dwight turned to face Billings. Do you see that?

It was dark and Billings struggled to see anything of interest.

Look closely, Sergeant. In his mouth. There’s something not there that ought to be.

My God! His tongue!

That’s right.

He has no tongue!

No tongue, Sergeant. That’s our monkey, alright. Dwight let go of the man’s mouth and turned to Jack, who was still desperately holding on to the Wild Man’s outstretched arm. Alright, Jack. At the count of three. One... two... three!

They both dropped the man’s arms in unison and staggered quickly out of the cell. The man dropped back down on the floor, pulled his knees towards his chest and continued to stare vacantly at the ground as before. 

Billings squatted down before the bars and tried looking him in the face.

Mr Lochrane? he said gently. My name is Detective Sergeant Billings.

A horrible stench wafted from the man’s mouth and Billings was forced to look away.

Dwight rolled his eyes. He don’t speak, Sergeant. No tongue, remember.

But he can hear, said Billings, although there were no signs of that. The man continued to stare ahead of him with that bewildered look, ignoring him completely.

There’s no point, Sergeant. We tried talking to him ourselves. He won’t respond.

Then how do you know you’ve got the right man?

How do I know? Dwight turned red with indignation. ’Cause he fits the description, that’s how! He picked the police gazette up from the desk beside the cell and looked for the corresponding page. Here. ‘A rough-looking man, about six foot three, shoulder length hair, unkempt. Brown and grey beard, most likely caked with mud. And no tongue!’ There! Look for yourself.

He held out the gazette to Billings, but Billings didn’t take it. He was still looking at the Wild Man, huddled in the corner of his cell, staring blankly ahead of him. How to describe that look? It was powerless, defeated, resigned. This was a man who had given up fighting and was ready to take whatever life thrust at him in the hope that it would soon put him out of his misery. He’s not quite six foot three, Billings concluded.

What?

The police gazette describes him as being six foot three. He’s shorter than that.

"This is our man, Sergeant. The Wild Man of Sutton Courtenay. We done our job. We caught our monkey. Now it’s your job to gather the evidence and get him hanged."

Berkshire Aristocrat Murdered By Axe Wielding Wild Man

THE BERKSHIRE COUNTY Constabulary reports that on the 21st of October 1890, the body of Lord Palmer of Sutton House, in the village of Sutton Courtenay, was found lying face down in the woods of his estate, with a hatchet sticking out of his shoulder blades. The hatchet was identified as one belonging to Brendan Lochrane, a vagrant known locally as The Wild Man of Sutton Courtenay, who had been living and working in the woods on Lord Palmer’s estate for almost a year. There were also large wounds on the back of Lord Palmer’s head and the body had been robbed of five pounds, three shillings, a gold watch and a gold plated cameo ring. The whereabouts of Lochrane is currently unknown, but the police suspect him of being on his way to London. The Berkshire Constabulary describe him as being six foot three, with long, ruffled hair and a long black beard which he may now have shaved off. He is also described as having no tongue. The public are urged to report any sightings of an individual matching these descriptions to the police and under no circumstances to approach him themselves.

BILLINGS READ UP ON the case in The Morning Post that same evening and instantly cursed Clarkson for talking him into taking it. There is nothing more stress-inducing than to be saddled up with a sensational case which has captured the interest of the national press, he thought. His heart started trembling in his chest and his brain was pounding in his skull as he walked back to his rooms in Battersea. His hands were shaking and his knees were knocking so much that he was forced to stop on Chelsea Bridge to catch his breath. The tremors didn’t usually start until around eight o’clock. He had taken that into consideration when he agreed to stay on longer at work. He calculated that he would be back home, safely cradling his syringe and his morphine ampoules long before any signs of his addiction would become visible. But the notoriety of the case and the expectation and responsibility with which he was now laden had aggravated his condition, and he was a complete wreck by the time he staggered up the stairs to his room.

Two hours later the morphine was rushing through his veins, lightening his mind, soothing his vision and un-tightening his muscles. He was lying on his bed, propped up against his pillow, his eyelids were drooping and he was drifting slowly into that twilight state, somewhere between dream and wakefulness, when his landlady walked in to pick up the dishes.

He saw her frown when she saw him draped over his bed. You taking that morphine, again? And you bein’ a detective and all. Ain’t you supposed to stay bright and alert?

He used to be more careful. He used to wait until midnight. Make sure that he had locked the door and blown out all the lights before taking his dose. It used to be merely an aid to help him sleep, but over the years, he had become lax. The morphine had become a crutch and he found that he needed to take his dose earlier and earlier. Midnight became ten o’clock. Ten o’clock became nine. Now it was eight. Sometimes even half past seven.

When you gonna brighten this room up a bit, eh? his landlady continued.  It looks like a bloomin’ prison cell in here! She closed the curtains. And when you gonna let me put some colourful drapes up for you? I’ve got an aspidistra in the lounge, you could have that. That’ll cheer things up a bit. It’s a good job you never have any visitors. I’d be too embarrassed to show them this room – ’ere, you ain’t eaten any of my soup!

What a disappointment he must be to fussy old Mrs Appleby, thought Billings. He used to be her prize tenant. ‘Detective Sergeant Billings from the Metropolitan Police.’ Now he was just a sad, miserable dope fiend she couldn’t bring herself to turn away.

CHAPTER TWO

The Disappearance of Sebastian Forrester

My dear John,

(I may call you John, I hope. I have known you for so long and I have been following your life with such interest. I hear you have been promoted to the CID. Mr Forrester and I send you our warmest congratulations.)

You must be wondering why I am writing to you now after all these years. Something has happened which has upset us both very much and we need your help. It’s about Sebastian. I do not want to put this in writing, but I would like to meet you. Could you come to the meeting house today at four? (Why don’t we see you at the meeting house anymore? God is in you, John. Waiting for you to give him the opportunity to shine through. I hope you don’t feel I’m being too forward or that I am in any way interfering, but there is so much of you that reminds me of our dear Sebastian. The same darkness that cloaked his life, cloaks yours, and I just know that God can help you lift it.)

Trusting to see you at today’s meeting and wishing you strength and love,

yours truly,

Mrs Cecilia Forrester

THE LETTER LAY WAITING for Billings on his breakfast plate as he came down that morning.

It was delivered by an elegant lady, said Mrs Appleby as she appeared from the kitchen to pour his coffee. She was dressed all in black. I told her you were in and she could deliver the letter to you herself, but she was in such a hurry.

The letter came imbued with the scent of Mrs Forrester’s perfume and the smell of Mr Forrester’s cigars. The aroma wafted up from the paper and triggered a flood of bittersweet memories in Billings. He instantly found himself in that dark little room on the top floor of the Forresters’ Chelsea home, where the servants used to sleep. The fragrance of citrus and lavender reminded him of the linen on the large oak bed which he shared with his mother – linen which had been taken from Mrs Forrester’s own bedroom and had been moved upstairs for their use. The smell of cigars reminded him of the tobacco-stained pages of Mr Forrester’s old books, which had been cleared from the study to make room for newer and more important works and which had been stacked into piles against the unpapered walls.

An acquaintance of yours, is it? asked Mrs Appleby, still standing before him with the coffee pot in her hands.

No, Billings replied softly.

She was awfully smart. Not a relative of yours, is she?

No.

Just a friend, then?

Go! Billings kept thinking to himself. Go away and leave me alone!

She’s the one who put us up when we returned from Africa, he said.

Oh, when your father died?

Yes.

Well, I should’ve insisted she’d come in then. But then she was in such a hurry. Mrs Appleby finally picked the dirty dishes up from the table, put them on her tray and carried them back into the kitchen.

Billings remained sitting at the table, staring blankly at the letter without blinking until his vision glazed over and the curly black letters merged into one swirling blur. Suddenly he saw his mother again, pale and sickly on her bed, sore from all the coughing. She had caught consumption during the crossing from Cape Town. They had only been in England two months. Her last words, her last breath, were spent on utterances of gratitude and humility, so that none were left for her son. Billings understood now that she had persuaded Mr Forrester to look after him when she died and that this is what she was thanking them for, but he didn’t know that then. At that time he just wondered exactly what he was supposed to be grateful for. He was a minor when he came to England. A thirteen year old boy with a rough and patchy education, orphaned within two months of arriving and stranded helplessly in a foreign land. It was surely Mr Forrester’s duty to look after him.

‘It’s about Sebastian,’ she had written. Billings suddenly felt that same roaring rage well up as when he was fourteen and Sebastian Forrester would come home from university. The glorious young Sebastian with his pensive blue eyes, his strong, broad shoulders and his alabaster skin. There stood Billings demurely in the corner, short, pale and scrawny, watching the Forresters kiss and hug and fuss over their beloved son whilst he waited his turn to pay his respects. Only a few months ago, he too had two parents who loved and fussed over him. Only a few months ago, he was the white demigod and all the Malagasy children looked at him with envy as he got to go home with his parents – their teachers – and they were forced to return to their straw huts and work the land or graze their cattle. Now he was just a ward. A protégé. An orphan.

Why did Mrs Appleby have to tell Mrs Forrester that he was in? He had no choice now but to go to the meeting house and meet up with her.

Billings stood outside the Friends Meeting House on St Martin’s Lane. He couldn’t bring himself to go in. He hadn’t attended a meeting for many years. Quakers called them meetings because they didn’t worship. They didn’t preach or sing or pray. They just sat in shared silence, only ever speaking when they were moved to do so. Billings hated silence. It made him feel uneasy. He wanted noise around him. He needed distractions. God’s presence could be felt in silence