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“How can that be, Mr Billings?” Trotter rushed into the office and laid the newspaper on his desk. “It says here the police fished her out of the river at one o’clock in the morning. She was strangled, and her ears had been cut off. How can you have followed Miss Bunton back to Mr Doucet’s house at nine when the police fished her out of the water at one?”
Billings frowned. He got up and walked towards the window. He massaged his temples as he stared out onto the street.
Trotter waited for an answer. “Perhaps you followed the wrong person. Perhaps it was dark and you couldn’t see well. Perhaps the woman you followed looked a lot like Miss Bunton.”
“I didn’t follow her, Trotter.” His left hand began to tremble.
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t follow her.” He finally turned to face his assistant. “I had something very important to do last night, and I’d completely forgotten that it was your day off. By the time I remembered, it was too late.”
“But the report you wrote...”
“I made it up.”
Trotter gasped and put his hands to his mouth. “Oh, Mr Billings!”
“I was working on Mrs Grenfell’s case.” Billings hoped that that might redeem him a little. “I had to attend an event which could lead me to her whereabouts.”
“What was the event?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“So, what do we do now?”
“I don’t suppose you can stop that parcel?”
Trotter shook his head. “I handed it to the postman. It’s gone.”
Billings sighed. “Well, then I suppose I’d better visit Mr Doucet this morning and explain things in person.”
“But you can’t. Mr Doucet has been arrested.”
“What?”
Trotter read out from the newspaper. “Miss Bunton’s employer, Mr Melvin Doucet, was arrested this morning by Detective Sergeant Clarkson, who is leading the case.”
Billings raised his eyebrows. “Clarkson?”
“They think her murder is connected to that of the man whose body parts keep washing up on the riverbanks.”
The doorbell rang. Billings turned towards the window. His heart leapt when he saw Clarkson standing outside.
It had been nearly a year since he last saw Clarkson. He looked different. His auburn hair, which always used to flop over his forehead, was now waved and gelled back, and he wore a light grey overcoat which reached towards his ankles, making him look important. He seemed more mature now. He was accompanied by a uniformed constable. Clarkson had once been his faithful subordinate. Now he had a subordinate of his own.
Clarkson looked up. A broad smile appeared on his face. And that familiar twinkle in his eyes. “Billings, me old mate!” he called.
Billings felt that nervous, tickling sensation in his stomach again. He lifted the lower sash of the window and stuck out his head. “Hello, Clarkson,” he said awkwardly.
“Well, blow me down! So, it really is you! I thought you’d disappeared off the face of the earth. Well, let me in.”
Billings closed the window. He took a deep breath, clenched his trembling hand and hid it behind his back. With his heart in his mouth, he rushed down the stairs.
He reappeared a short while later with Clarkson and the police officer.
Clarkson looked around the room. “Well, well, well. So, this is what you’ve been up to. Your very own private detective office. ’Ere, I tried contacting you. I sent you letters, but you never replied.”
Billings hung his head. He didn’t know what to say.
“You just disappeared. From one day to the next. Flynt said you had problems with your back.”
“That’s right.” Billings lifted his head and finally looked him in the eyes. “My old injury has flared up again. I couldn’t continue with police work.”
“You never even said goodbye.”
“I wasn’t well, Clarkson. I was stressed. I didn’t want to speak to anyone.”
“Not even me?”
Billings didn’t reply.
“’ow’s your back now?”
“Better. Thanks.”
Clarkson looked around him again. His eyes fell on the newspaper on Trotter’s desk. “Ah, you’ve read about it. Good. It’s what I came for. Mr Doucet said you were following her last night.”
Billings shook his head.
“You weren’t?”
“I was supposed to, but I forgot. Trotter’s been doing most of the shadowing.” He pointed at his colleague. “This is my assistant, Bartholomew Trotter.”
Clarkson and Trotter nodded at each other.
“It was Trotter’s day off yesterday, and I was supposed to take over from him, but it completely slipped my mind.”
“That is a shame,” Clarkson said. “I was hoping you’d be able to give me some leads.”
“Leads?” Trotter asked. “I thought you arrested Mr Doucet.”
Clarkson shook his head. “No. The newspaper got that wrong. He was taken in for questioning, but we let him go again. He has an alibi.”
“What is his alibi?” Billings asked.
“I can’t tell you that, Billings. It’s confidential. But if you weren’t following her last night, then where were you?”
“Where was I?”
“I’ve got to ask, Billings. Doucet thinks you were the last person to see her alive. Do you have an alibi for last night?”
“I... um...” Sweat beads appeared on his forehead. He had four witnesses to his activities, but he didn’t know their names or what they looked like. How was he going to explain that to Clarkson? “I was here. Sleeping.”
“Is there anyone who can confirm that?”
Billings shook his head.
“Well, that’s that, then. You’ve got nothing to tell us.”
“I’m sorry.”
Clarkson looked at Billings and smiled. “We should go out for a drink sometime. Catch up.”
Billings smiled back. “I’d like that.”
“You know where to find me. Pop by sometime. And don’t disappear again.”
“I won’t.”
Clarkson nodded at Billings and Trotter then left with the police officer.
“Why did you lie to him?” Trotter asked.
“I didn’t.”
“You told me you attended a mysterious event yesterday.”
Billings looked at the clock on the wall. “You’d better go now, Trotter. I’m giving you the afternoon off.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got things to do.”
“What things?”
“Never you mind.” He put his hand on Trotter’s lower back and pushed him towards the door. “Off you go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“But what about my pay?”
“I’ll pay you tomorrow. Goodbye.”
***
HIS HAND WAS STILL trembling as he marched down Bishopsgate. Not with nerves or stress, but with anger. He’d been used. Why and by whom, he didn’t know, but it couldn’t have been coincidence that Rachel Bunton was murdered on the one day that she wasn’t being followed.
Billings took the first train to Aldgate. He stood in the packed carriage, holding tightly to the hand grip. Why did he tell Clarkson that he’d stayed at home that night? He’d dug himself deeper into a confounded hole! The truth was that he was weary of talking about the society. He remembered Ibis’ words at their first meeting. “I need you to make a solemn promise not to speak about this to anyone. Beware! Break your promise and the wrath of the Gods will be unleashed upon you.”And he remembered the look of terror in Mrs Grenfell’s eyes when she spoke of the men in black suits who followed her. Was this what had happened to her? Had she broken her vow of silence?
He got off at Aldgate Station and made his way to the synagogue. He had to speak to the rabbi again. The one who’d read his mind. The one who’d suggested him as a candidate for the Sons of Cain (it had to be him; it couldn’t have been anyone else). How did he know about Billings’ past? Why did he invite him to be part of the Sons of Cain? How was he connected to Doucet and the murder of Rachel Bunton?
He ran up the steps of the synagogue, stopped in the doorway and looked in. A man was sitting in one of the pews, wearing a black homburg hat and jacket. His long grey hair was tied back into a ponytail.
“Excuse me,” Billings called.
The man turned his head. Kind blue eyes and a chubby pink face looked back at him. This wasn’t the same rabbi.
“Oh,” Billings said, disappointed. “I’m sorry. I was looking for the other rabbi.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “Other rabbi?”
“With the black bushy eyebrows. I spoke to him a few days ago.”
The man looked confused. “Our rabbi is Dr Adler,” he said with a German accent. “But he does not have black bushy eyebrows.”
“I spoke to a man a few days ago. He was sitting outside on the steps of the synagogue. Said he was a rabbi. He looked a lot like you.”
“Like me? I am not a rabbi, sir.”
“Well, he had the same black hat. And the same long hair.”
The man shook his head. “Well, then it wasn’t Dr Adler. His hair is short. There is a rabbi in training. A tall, lanky young man with curly hair and eyeglasses. Could it have been him?”
Billings shook his head. “Are there others who dress like you?”
“Like me? You mean the hat and the beard?”
“Yes.”
“Well... was he Lithuanian? Lithuanian Jews dress like this. There are a few of us in Aldgate. But black bushy eyebrows, you say?” He thought about this. “No. Nobody springs to mind.”
Billings knew he wasn’t getting anywhere. “Well, thank you very much. I suppose I’d better look elsewhere.” He walked away.
As he walked back home, Billings thought about how he’d ended up like this. How had he managed to mess up his career again? It had only just started! He’d been sleepwalking through these last few months. Blundering through, taking on mysterious clients with questionable assignments, attending dodgy meetings, ignoring all the warning signs, giving his hard-earned money to people who were obviously scamming him. What had happened to him? He used to be sensible and careful. How had he descended to this?
He stopped. He clenched his fists and bit his bottom lip. It was time to pull himself together and end this madness. He took an about turn and headed southwards to the Victoria Embankment.
***
BILLINGS HADN’T BEEN back to the Scotland Yard building since he got kicked out. He didn’t even want to look at it now. He kept his eyes on the ground as he approached it. He could see the orange brick wall in his periphery, but that was all he was prepared to tolerate. He stopped on the corner of Tallis Street and Temple Avenue. With his back towards the building, he turned up his collar, tilted his hat to hide his face, leaned against a lamp post and waited. He heard the clerks and officers leave the building at the end of their shifts. Clarkson was amongst them. Billings recognised his laughter (Clarkson was always laughing). He waited for Clarkson to walk past him before rushing towards him and slapping him on his back.
Clarkson jumped. “Billings, me old mate, you startled me! What are you doing here?”
“Come for a drink with me.” He grabbed his arm and pulled him into a pub before anyone else saw him. Clarkson tagged along reluctantly.
They headed for the bar. “What are you having?” Billings asked.
Clarkson took his watch out of his pocket and checked the time. “Well, I’m supposed to go home. The rib’s waiting for me with the tea.”
“Go on, have a quick one. Your wife can wait.”
Clarkson hesitated. “Very well, then.”
Billings smiled.
After ordering their drinks, they sat down at a table.
“It really is great to see you again, Billings, me old mate.” Clarkson had that familiar sparkle in his eyes, which Billings so loved. “I’ve missed you,”
“It’s great seeing you too, Detective Sergeant Clarkson.”
Clarkson laughed.
“You’re doing quite well for yourself, aren’t you?”
“Ain’t I just! And what a case I’ve been handed.”
“It’s a big one.”
“But a lot of hard work. I’ve been at the office more than I’ve been at home. The rib ain’t very happy with that.”
“How’s the case going?”
“It’s a bugger, Billings. And I’m carrying it all on me own. They haven’t given me a new partner yet.”
“Well, if you need someone to sound off on...”
Clarkson smiled. “I wish I could, mate. But you’re a civilian now.”
There was short pause.
“Actually, Clarkson, there is something that I wanted to tell you.”
“What?”
“The night Miss Bunton got killed. I told you that I was at home, but... um...”
Clarkson raised his eyebrows. “You weren’t?”
“I was at a meeting.”
“Go on.” Clarkson picked up his tankard and took a sip.
“I was invited to join a society called the Sons of Cain and Daughters of Lilith.”
Clarkson spat out his drink and nearly choked on his ale. “Bloomin’ ’eck, Billings! That’s the name of the sect!”
“The sect?”
“That’s why Doucet hired you to follow his maid. He’s convinced that she’s involved in this sect. Doucet thinks it’s evil. He wanted to protect Miss Bunton from it.” Clarkson wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then picked up his tankard and took another sip. “I shouldn’t be telling you all this, Billings. This is strictly between you and me. But how the devil did you get to be involved in that sect?”
“I was invited.”
“By who?”
“I don’t know. An invitation was slipped under my door. I didn’t see who delivered it. But I think it was the rabbi in Aldgate Synagogue.”
“A rabbi? What did the rabbi look like?”
“Long hair. Grey beard. Black bushy eyebrows.”
“Must’ve been Doucet senior.”
“Doucet’s father?”
“Yes. He calls himself Frater Sapienti. He’s the one who set up the sect. Do you know where to get hold of him?”
Billings shook his head.
“What about your alibi? Was there anyone else at that meeting?”
“There were, but I don’t know who they are. We all wore masks.”
“Masks?” Clarkson shook his head. “Bloomin’ ’eck, Billings. Why did you want to get involved with that lot?”
“I was curious.”
“What do you do at these meetings?”
“We learn magic.”
“Magic?”
“Mind reading. Levitating.”
Clarkson frowned. “And you believe all that?”
“Well...” Billings shrugged.
“When is the next meeting?”
“I don’t know. I’m expecting an invitation any time.”
“Will you let me know when you receive it?”
“Of course. I want to help you with this case. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
Clarkson smiled. He reached out across the table and grabbed Billings’ hand. “Thanks. You’re a great friend.”
Billings felt chills run down his spine. He quickly pulled back his hand and looked away to hide his blushing.
“Why did you have to leave the Yard?” Clarkson asked.
“You know why I left.”
“Your back.”
“Yes.”
“And how is your back now?”
“Better.”
“So, you can come back now?”
Billings frowned. Damn it. He’d walked into that one.
“You know, the chaps in the office are all talking about you.”
Billings was still looking away. “What are they saying?”
“They’re speculating about why you left. They say that it had something to do with the Hirsch brothers case. They say you did something inappropriate. Something illegal.”
“And do you believe them?”
“Of course I don’t believe them. You’re the most honest man I know. I just thought you should know, that’s all.”
Billings shrugged. “I don’t care what people think of me.”
“Nor should you. They’re a bunch of gossiping old maids, that’s what they are.” Clarkson took his pocket watch out again. “I really should be going now, Billings. The rib will kill me if she finds out I went for a drink after work.” He downed the rest of his ale, slammed the tankard on the table and got up. “You’ll let me know when you receive that invitation, then?”
“I will.”
“Good man.” Clarkson nudged Billings’ shoulder, put on his coat and made his way out of the pub.
––––––––
AS HE TRUDGED BACK home, Billings thought about what Clarkson had told him. So Doucet knew about the society. But why didn’t he want to tell Billings why he wanted his maid followed? Perhaps he was scared of the society. Like Wolf Augustus at the library. And Mrs Grenfell.
Billings shook his head. Something wasn’t right here. Doucet seemed shifty and uncomfortable when he came to Billings’ office. And one crucial question still remained unanswered. Why did Doucet come to Billings – a new and completely unknown private detective? And why did he lie about reading his advertisement in The Times?
He entered his building and climbed the stairs. There was a parcel at his door. A brown envelope, too big to slip under the door. Another invitation, he thought. He picked it up and opened it. There was an object inside. A small, round pocket mirror. Billings took it out and turned it in his hand. There were engravings on the back, similar to the one received by Mrs Grenfell, but not the same. He flipped open the mirror. A large crack ran straight through the middle of it, distorting his reflection and giving him a freakish appearance.
His heart pounded in his chest. He remembered the frantic look in the old lady’s eyes. When it’s cracked, it means they want you dead.