The Durham Deception ta-2 Read online

  The Durham Deception

  ( Tom Ansell - 2 )

  Philip Gooden

  Philip Gooden

  The Durham Deception

  Act One

  The curtain rises and the first reaction of the audience is puzzlement. They have been expecting something eastern, exotic. But there is no painted backdrop depicting snow-capped mountains and plunging ravines. There are no rocks or trees which might conceal apes and serpents. There is nothing at all, in fact, except a tent-like structure surrounded by patterned fabric on three sides and open to the audience on the fourth. In the centre of this space sits a three-legged table not much larger than one which would be used in a card game. The table is bare, without a cloth of any kind.

  Then on to the stage strides Major Sebastian Marmont. He is a short man with the soldier’s swagger and a complexion long burnished by foreign suns. He wears a tropical suit and a solar topi. He is greeted by applause. Those who have not yet seen him and his Hindoo troupe are familiar with his reputation and, despite that unpromising card-table, they give him the benefit of the doubt. Major Marmont raises one hand to quieten the audience. He steps towards the footlights.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I appear before you tonight as a soldier — as a traveller — and most of all as a tireless seeker into those strange realms which lie tantalizingly beyond our reach — the realms of mist and mystery. It is well known that the source of everything which is truly wondrous and magical in our world lies to the east. Yet, through my endeavours, I am able to bring to all of you assembled here tonight an experience from the fabulous Orient such as has hitherto been vouchsafed only to the privileged few even in those antique lands.’

  The Major pauses to let this sink in. He turns slightly and claps his hands, once. On staggers one of his servant boys. The boy is cradling a black travelling case like a small hat box. The Major wags a finger at him to indicate that he must handle the case with particular care. The boy passes the case to the Major who accepts the burden in an almost reverential spirit before dismissing the boy with a nod of the head. Major Marmont places the case in the centre of the table. He stands back. He says, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, behold the Sage of Katmandu.’

  Major Marmont moves forward again to the case on the table and unfastens the lid, which is hinged. He folds the lid back so that the interior is revealed. It contains a human head. It is the head of a holy man set within folds of red silk. The head has flowing white hair and a seraphic expression. Its eyes are closed. The audience gasps. A few of them start to look at the Major with suspicion and alarm. (There has recently been a celebrated murder involving a head, a torso, two suitcases and the left-luggage department of a railway station. The murder filled the more sensational papers for weeks.) But this object, realistic as it seems, is surely made of wax.

  In the meantime the Major has shifted to the side of the stage. He too is gazing at the disembodied head as if he had never seen such a thing in his life before. He is tugging at his moustaches. Now he claps his hands once more, not in the commanding style he used to summon the boy but in a way that is gentle, almost deferential. He says softly, ‘Sage, awake.’

  The eyes of the head flick open and move from side to side, then up and down, as if the head is ascertaining exactly where it finds itself. There are more gasps from the audience. Then the head of the Sage of Katmandu smiles, as if it is pleased to be here, in this very theatre on this very evening. The smile is not ghoulish or disturbing, it is actually quite benign.

  ‘Sage,’ says the Major, ‘you have enjoyed a long rest, I hope, in your voyage across the continents of the world.’

  The head moves slightly up and down. It is nodding in agreement. Some of the wiser heads in the audience are nodding too. They can see how this trick is worked. It’s easy when you know. This is a head made out of wax or a similar substance, somehow operated by pumps or cords or other machinery, although the space beneath the table is absolutely bare. The head will open its eyes and smile. It will nod in agreement and even shake in denial but it will not be capable of speech.

  Yet the mouth does open! The head does speak! It says, ‘I am content.’

  The voice is a curious strangulated sing-song. Is this how people speak in India? Perhaps it is.

  The Major, still standing to one side so as to give the audience a clear view of the white-haired head within the box on the table, says, ‘Sage, are you prepared to answer questions from these good folk assembled here tonight? They are eager to hear your pearls of wisdom.’

  ‘They are welcome.’

  The Major looks round the audience. He shades his eyes with his hand and gazes across the stalls and up into the galleries. ‘Your questions, ladies and gentlemen? Ask anything you like.’

  No one wants to be the first to speak out. Then comes a screech from the gods: ‘Ask ’im where my ’usband is, the bastard! ’E walked out three weeks ago.’

  There is some guffawing from the upper reaches of the theatre, as well as plenty of tutting and shushing sounds from the more expensive seats down below. Major Marmont pretends not to understand the question. The Sage of Katmandu blinks slowly as if a response to that kind of query is beneath him. Soon a more sensible demand comes from a gentleman in the stalls (three shillings, reserved). The question is: ‘What is the secret of the universe?’

  The Major turns towards the head in the box. The head nods and the wide brow furrows slightly.

  ‘The secret of the universe?’ it muses. ‘The answer lies all around us. But you will not find it by searching for it. You must wait for it to reveal itself…’

  The head continues in this vein for some time. The same individuals who thought they had the head worked out — it’s a waxwork animated by compressed air — now check to see whether Major Marmont is throwing his voice. He’s a ventriloquist. That must be the solution. But no, it cannot be, because Major Marmont is wiping his brow with a handkerchief and then drinking from a tumbler of water brought out by one of his boys. He is pretending to be hot and thirsty but, of course, he is really demonstrating that it is almost impossible for him to throw his voice several yards across the stage and simultaneously to be draining the tumbler to its dregs. Nor is there any change in the voice of the Sage of Katmandu as he continues to unravel the secret of the universe.

  A couple of other questions are thrown at the Sage (‘Where is happiness to be found?’ ‘Above our heads, below our feet, within our grasp.’) before the Major brings proceedings to an end when he asks the disembodied head to show its esteem for the British nation by reciting from their greatest writer. So the Sage reels off most of the ‘To be or not to be’ speech from Hamlet in a voice that is not so strong as formerly. Since its powers seem to be fading, Marmont thanks the head, wishes it a peaceful sleep and closes up the lid of the case.

  The Major lifts the case from the table and bears it towards the footlights. Once again he unlatches the lid and displays the interior to the audience. Cries of surprise. The case no longer contains the Sage’s head nor even the silk which had surrounded it. Instead there is a mound of reddish dust or ash.

  ‘Do not trouble yourselves, ladies and gentlemen,’ says Major Marmont. ‘The Sage of Katmandu has the ability to dissolve and recreate himself time after time. It is a power beyond our understanding; it is the magic and the mystery of the East. The Sage of Katmandu will return in his own good time, with more wisdom from the Orient.’

  The Major tips a little of the red dust on to the stage floor in demonstration. Then he closes up the case for a final time and hands it to a boy who carries it offstage. There is a small pause while the audience struggle to take in what they have just seen, a talking head which could answer questions and recite fro
m Shakespeare and which has now been reduced to a heap of dust. Then someone begins to clap, and then half a dozen more and, within seconds, the theatre is filled with volleying applause and wild cheering. The building seems to shake with the noise.

  Major Marmont bows to every quarter of the house before striding off with the same manly soldier’s gait. For an instant the little table is left in its alcove illuminated by the lights, so that everyone can see that’s all it is — just a bare three-legged table — and then the curtain comes down.

  67, Tullis Street

  ‘Are you nervous?’ said Tom.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ said Helen.

  ‘Because your arm through mine feels awkward, and you haven’t said very much for the last few minutes.’

  ‘I’ve been picking my way along the street with care,’ said Helen, ‘and I am holding on to you for support. It’s wet and slippery underfoot.’

  It was an early Sunday evening in May but still overcast after the rain which had left a greasy deposit on the pavement. Church bells were ringing and couples were strolling to evensong or just taking the air after being shut up all day. Helen was right, you needed to be careful as you walked. But Tom thought that was just an excuse. She was nervous.

  ‘And you, Tom? Are you nervous?’

  ‘Me? No, more curious.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘Apprehensive then.’

  ‘I will settle for that,’ said Helen, tugging Tom so that he was closer to her. ‘Let’s be apprehensive together. It’s an adventure though, isn’t it.’

  ‘And good material for you.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Tom and Helen Ansell were walking arm in arm along Tullis Street which lies to the north of the British Museum. They had taken a cab as far as Maple’s in the Tottenham Court Road and got down there because Tom said he wanted to walk the last few hundred yards, even though Helen complained her skirts would pick up the mud. Really Tom wanted to delay the moment before they reached number 67. Not for the first time he was regretting that he had said yes to Helen when she suggested this little outing. This adventure.

  Tullis Street was rather dreary in the present weather, perhaps in any weather. The houses were flat and dun-coloured. The windows on the ground floor were smeary with the recent rain. Tom wondered what Mr Smight’s callers thought when they came to visit. The man was supposed to have had a distinguished list of clients once: a peer of the realm, Lady such-and-such, as well as a couple of MPs and a manufacturer or two. But perhaps his visitors weren’t concerned with appearances or even reassured by a plain style.

  They arrived at number 67. Tom noticed a man and woman loitering on the other side of the street. The man looked at him curiously. Tom turned his head away. There were railed steps which led up to a peeling front door. Tom went ahead of Helen and knocked. A housemaid opened the door almost immediately as if she had been waiting on the other side.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Thomas Ansell,’ said Tom. It gave him pleasure to say ‘Mr and Mrs Thomas Ansell’. He went out of his way to say the words. They were like the ingredients in a pleasing recipe. Helen and he had been married at the beginning of the year.

  ‘You’re the first,’ said the maid in a familiar manner. She was a girl with pinched cheeks and dark rings under her eyes. She stood to one side of the narrow passage to allow them to enter and then shut the front door before taking Tom’s hat and his furled umbrella. She almost hurled the umbrella into the stand where it landed with a clatter. She took their coats and hung them up. Then she indicated the front room.

  ‘You’re to wait in there… if you please… sir and madam. That’s the waiting room.’

  Tom and Helen went into the front parlour. In the centre was an oval table surrounded by half a dozen dining chairs, only one of them with arms. A large gilt-edged bible was set, unopened but prominent, on a lectern near the door. On the other side was a cottage-piano. Whether because of the bible or because of the musty smell of the room, Tom was reminded of the interior of a church on a wet afternoon. The furniture was heavy and the walls cluttered with pictures. Gaslights were burning low on either side of the fireplace but the lamps were dirty, and the gloom of the room was scarcely relieved by the evening light that filtered through the lace curtains.

  Tom and Helen stood uncertainly in the dimness. They could see themselves in a large mirror which was set over the mantelpiece and seemed to be hanging at a dangerous angle. There was no one to overhear — the maid had shut the door firmly on them — but nevertheless Helen whispered into Tom’s ear, ‘It’s more dowdy than I expected.’

  ‘It’s very dowdy,’ said Tom. But he was pleased at the dowdiness. A bright and cheerful room would not have felt right. Helen paced about, manoeuvring between the furniture as silently and inquisitively as a cat. Tom was content to watch her. Eventually she went across to the oval table and lifted the green baize cloth which covered it. The cloth was too large for the table and its fringes lapped at the legs of the chairs. Helen stooped, peered underneath and then dropped the cloth back with a satisfied ‘hmm’.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Have a look beneath.’

  Tom did so but saw nothing unusual although it was hard to make out much, given the shadows underneath and the general gloom of the front room.

  ‘Well?’ said his wife.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just a table.’

  ‘Dear Tom. Although it’s got these dining chairs around, it’s not really a dining table, it’s too small. And it is resting on a single central column which means there’s much more give in it than there would be with a regular four-legged dining table. More play.’

  To demonstrate, Helen pressed her hand a couple of times on an imaginary surface.

  ‘Easier for table-rapping and table-turning, you mean?’ said Tom.

  Helen nodded and went on, her voice rising as she was caught up by the certainty of what she was saying, ‘If we were allowed to examine the underneath of that table properly and in a good light we’d probably find all sorts of things. Compartments and hidden drawers and sliding panels. And you see the glass over the mantel?’

  ‘I see you in the glass.’

  ‘Then look at how this chair is placed at the table. It’s the only carver out of the set so it’s probably where he sits.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘The gentleman we are here to see.’

  ‘Well? What’s the link between chair and table?’ said Tom. He had already guessed but he asked for the pleasure of hearing Helen make her deductions.

  ‘He can keep an eye on everyone else round the table by glancing up at the reflections in the glass. It hangs at a slant so it would be easy to see from the chair. While the sitters are all eyes on him, he’s watching them back, front and sides.’

  ‘You’re a suspicious person, Helen.’

  ‘I’d prefer to be called sceptical.’

  ‘A sceptical and imaginative person then.’

  ‘That’s better.’

  As Tom was kissing Helen on the cheek, the door opened behind them. They swung round, slightly guilty. A large and alarming-looking woman swept in. She was dressed in black. Her complexion was strawberry-coloured and her hair stuck out from beneath a beaded cap surmounted by a single curled green feather.

  ‘Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr and Mrs Ansell?’ she said and then proceeded before Tom or Helen had the chance to nod agreement. ‘But of course I have. Even if the girl had not told me of your arrival I would have known you, my dear. You are Mrs Helen Ansell, nee Miss Helen Scott.’

  She stretched out her heavily ringed hands and took one of Helen’s between them. Seized rather than took. Tom saw his wife’s delicate fingers and palm disappear into the clasp of hands which were as red and chapped as if their owner washed her own laundry. But Helen kept her self-possession and did not try to snatch her hand back.

  ‘I’m afraid you have the advantage of us,’ she said. ‘I am not sure I have ever had the pleasure of meet
ing you before, madam.’

  ‘Nor I you, though I knew who you were straightaway,’ said the woman. ‘I am Miss Smight, Miss Ethel Smight. Oh but I can see the likeness in you.’

  ‘Likeness?’

  ‘To Julia Howlett. Your aunt.’

  ‘Aunt Julia. I have not seen her for many years. How do you know my aunt?’

  ‘You are the very image of her,’ said the woman, finally letting go of Helen’s hand but not answering the question. ‘The image of her when she was younger, much younger of course.’

  ‘But how do you know her?’ persisted Helen. ‘And how do you know we are connected? I was never a Howlett but a Scott and I have another name now.’

  She brushed her hand against Tom’s sleeve. Tom thought she was enjoying herself. The woman, presumably a sister to Mr Smight, pushed some of her straggling hair back beneath her cap before replying.

  ‘I knew your aunt well at one time. I knew your mother when she married Mr Scott. I am also a devoted reader of the marriage announcements in the newspaper. People of my age are sometimes said to prefer the death column, but I am all for life, yes all for life! When I saw at the end of last year that a Miss Helen Georgina Scott of Highbury was to marry a gentleman called Mr Thomas Edward Ansell, I said to myself that she must be the niece to my old friend, Julia Howlett. Said it over the breakfast table not only to myself but also to my brother Mr Smight. So when our maid told me that a Mr and Mrs Ansell had arrived, I put two and two together. I wonder what brought your feet to our door?’

  ‘Destiny?’ said Helen. Tom could tell she was speaking lightly, if not flippantly, but the woman treated the answer with seriousness. Miss Smight peered through the gloom at Helen.

  ‘Is it destiny? If you are able to say such a thing, then perhaps you have the gift.’

  Helen looked sideways at Tom, who said, as a way of getting himself into the conversation, ‘What gift is that, Miss Smight?’