Atticus Fox gently drew aside the parlour curtains of Number Sixteen, Prospect Place and gazed out across the Stray – the two hundred acres of open pasture, which opened out the very heart of the bustling, fashionable spa town of Harrogate in the West Riding of Yorkshire. Its elegant avenues and walkways were filled with the cream of European and Oriental society taking ‘the Cure,’ that curious mix of light exercise and hydrotherapy for which the town was world-renowned. It was a sight of which he would never grow truly tired but in truth, he was bored and he was restless. After all, there was only so much tea one could drink and so much chess one could play.
“Tea, Atticus?”
He throttled an inner sigh and turned to smile his thanks to his wife. Lucie Fox was already pouring milk from a dainty, porcelain jug into dainty, porcelain tea cups. She glanced across at him as he dropped into an armchair opposite and instantly read his mood.
“The post office messenger boy has just called with a telegram for us, Atticus. It’s a commission.”
“What is it?” Atticus asked sullenly, “Some old dowager’s lapdog has got itself lost down a rabbit hole? Or perhaps a hotel has had another silver teaspoon go missing?”
Lucie lifted the lid of the big teapot and inspected the contents.
“Neither, Atticus; it concerns a murder.”
“A murder?”
Lucie nodded. “Yes, a murder; you’ll find the telegram on the tea-tray if you’d care to read it.”
Atticus, his woes forgotten, sat up and scrabbled the slip of paper from the salver.
“It’s dated today, Lucie; Wednesday, the 4th of June, 1890. To A. & L. Fox, Commissioned Investigators, from Colonel Sir Hugh Lowther of Shields Tower, Northumberland. ‘Wish to engage your services. Investigation of brutal murder. Please come forthwith.’”
He stared at the paper as if it might have contained all the secrets of the ancients.
“A murder!” he repeated at last, “But why would anyone engage us to investigate a murder? We are only commissioned investigators. Murders are police business.”
His wife shrugged. “I have really no idea, Atticus. It’s a pity Colonel Lowther didn’t give us any more detail, other than the murder was brutal of course.”
Atticus drummed his chin with his fingertips as he roused a memory.
“Now I come to think of it, there was a very peculiar death reported a few days ago, I believe in the Daily Chronicle. It was in Northumberland, on an estate near Hexham. A Gypsy man was found stabbed to death, but not only that, he’d been badly mutilated and beheaded. The papers were speculating as to whether it might have been the Whitechapel Ripper at work again, although I’m quite sure that it isn’t.”
He passed her the telegram.
“What do you think, Lucie; shall we take up this commission?”
She smiled at his expression – like a dog with its leash.
“Of course we shall,” she said brightly. “It is a murder enquiry. How often is it that we get one of those?”
Atticus beamed.
“In that case, I’ll send a reply to this Sir Hugh Lowther straight away and arrange for our tickets up to Northumberland. We shall take the first train north tomorrow morning. ‘Quo Fata Vocant,’ Lucie: ‘Whither the Fates call.’”