Mask of the Verdoy: A George Harley Mystery (Book #1)

by Phil Lecomber

Cockney private eye George Harley battles police corruption and the might of the Blackshirts to bring the villain to justice.‘A new chapter in London noir fiction unfolds with the launch of MASK OF THE VERDOY – the first book in the period crime thriller series, the George Harley Mysteries.’In part an homage to Grahame Greene’s Brighton Rock, and to the writings of Gerald Kersh, James Curtis, Patrick Hamilton, Norman Collins and the other chroniclers of London lowlife in the 1930s, MASK OF THE VERDOY also tips its hat to the heyday of the British crime thriller—but unlike the quaint sleepy villages and sprawling country estates of Miss Marple and Hercules Poirot, George Harley operates in the spielers, clip-joints and all-night cafés that pimple the seedy underbelly of a city struggling under the austerity of the Great Slump.The interwar period setting of the George Harley Mysteries should have an obvious resonance with the present day reader – with the Western world struggling in the grip of a global economic crisis, haunted by past military conflicts and turning to extreme politics as doom-mongers foretell the decline of civilization and the death of capitalism. Sounding familiar?In creating Harley’s world special attention has been given to the use of authentic slang and idioms of London in the 1930s, and the adoption of a retro storytelling style perfectly complements the subject matter. There are also some timely themes woven into the narrative, such as Harley’s questioning of the British class system, corruption in the government and police force, and the manipulation of the press by the rich and powerful.

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

London, March 1932

George Harley hopped off the No.13 as it slowed for the lights and started to push his way through the crowds. Piccadilly Circus was seething with Friday-nighters: wide-boys, jazz babies, straight-cuts and steamers—a congregation of pleasure-seekers “up West” for a little solace from the grey workaday week, all gathered beneath the neon hoardings proclaiming the gospel according to Bovril and Guinness.

A newspaper vendor grabbed Harley’s sleeve as he passed, pointing to the headline displayed on his stand.

‘ʼEre—you seen this, George?’

Harley read the poster: FASCISTS TO MARCH ON THE EAST END. He pulled his own folded newspaper from under his arm.

‘Just read about it.’

‘What’s your lot gonna make of that then?’

‘My lot? Who’s that then, Bert?’ Harley smiled, ready for the ribbing.

‘Your bolshie mates … Oh, and your pal Solly Rosen and all them other ikey-moes.’

‘It’ll be a bloodbath I expect. But then I reckon that’s exactly what Saint Clair’s after.’

‘Don’t know what it’s all coming to, George—what with yer bleedin’ Blackshirts and hunger marchers, yer Fenians and Mahatma Ghandis. Seems like half the world’s raising Cain at the moment … What d’you make of these ’ere bombings? They reckon it’s anarchists, don’t they?’

‘Don’t think they really know who’s behind it yet. It’s this sodding Depression, ain’t it—everyone’s getting desperate.’

‘You know, I read somewhere the other day that it could last another ten years,’ said Bert, pulling a half-eaten sandwich from his pocket and taking a bite.

‘Could be worse than that, Bert.’

‘How’s that then?’

‘Well, the Great Slump? Might just turn out to be the death rattle of Capitalism.’

‘Oh—ʼere we go!’

‘Seriously, you just think about it. Since the war people’s expectations have changed. And all that old gammon they gave us when we came back—’

‘Land fit for heroes, right?’

‘Exactly! What happened to all that then, eh? These Blackshirts? And the bombings? I reckon that’s just the start of it. Could be that the whole bloody house of cards is beginning to tumble. See, people want reassurance, don’t they? And someone to blame. So when our Fascist friend Sir Pelham Saint Clair turns up offering them a quick remedy—no matter how bitter the medicine might taste to some—well, they’re going to bite his hand off, ain’t they?’

‘Still, you’ve gotta look on the bright side George, ain’t yer?’ said Bert, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and screwing up his sandwich paper.

‘Oh yeah—what’s that then?’

‘Well, it all sells newsprint, don’t it?’

‘Well, you ain’t wrong there,’ said Harley, laughing. ‘Look after yourself, Bert.’

‘Right-you-are, George … West End Final! Blackshirts to march on the East End! … West End Final!’

***

Having finally won his battle with the box of matches the gent in evening dress re-ignited his Partagás and set off towards the glittering lure of neon light, reeling a little as he sang out in a faltering tenor:

I always hold in having it if you fancy it, if you fancy it, that’s understood!
And suppose it makes you fat—I don’t worry over thaaaat!
’Cos a little of what you fancy does you good!

Observing the drunk’s progress from beneath a streetlamp, Vera turned to her confederate and delivered a quick assessment.

‘ʼAve a look at this one, Gracie—all made up like a hambone. He’s lousy with it, I shouldn’t wonder.’

She took a step out onto the pavement.

‘He’s a veritable Jessie Matthews, ain’t ʼe?’

‘Very melodic, I’m sure,’ said the lugubrious Gracie.

‘And exactly what is it you fancy dear?’

The gent took a second or two to focus on Vera.

‘Eh?’

‘Well, it sounds like you’ve ʼad a good night up till now—how d’you fancy a little decent company to round it off?’

‘Oh, well I … if I were to—you know, as it were … I mean … how much would that, eh, how much would that be, exactly?’

Vera darted in closer, lowering her voice.

‘Alright—let’s not broadcast it to the nation! Don’t want the bogeys sniffing round now, do we? Half-a-bar, love.’

‘Half-a-bar?’

‘Ten shillings, dear—and I guarantee you’ll enjoy every penny.’

At the sound of approaching footsteps Vera took a step away from her prospective punter and started to rummage through her handbag, glancing nonchalantly at the new arrival—who, in his black tie and tails, certainly didn’t look like CID.

‘Rupert, you old scoundrel! What are you up to now? Good grief, man! You really are impossible! Come on—my driver has the car waiting.’

‘Ah! There you are, old chap. I was just, erm … ’ The gent described a wobbly circle with his cigar by way of explanation.

‘Yes, I can jolly well see what you were doing. But … well, if you really are intent on a little extracurricular, we can stop off in Mayfair. There’s a little French filly just off New Bond Street who’s a little more …’ he turned to give Vera a disparaging once-over, ‘… exclusive.’

‘Mademoiselle, you say? Spot of the old officer’s blue lamp, eh? Sounds just the ticket, old boy! Well, what are we waiting for? Onwards and upwards!’

They linked arms and pushed on up Piccadilly.

‘Did you ever hear the like?’ said Vera, watching her ten shillings disappear into the night. ‘More exclusive? What, that soap-dodging frog in Maddox Street? Stuck up berk! I know his type—always shaking ʼands with his gentleman’s gentleman.’ She began to search through her bag again. ‘Lend us a smoke, Grace—I’m all out.’

‘You was in service once, weren’t you, Veer?’ said Gracie, passing her friend a cigarette.

‘Yes, and the less said about that the better. Up with the sparrow’s fart and chapped hands all round. Yes sir! No sir! Three-bags-full sir! That’s all you need to know about that lark, dear.’

‘It’d be nice though, wouldn’t it? Someone to cook and clean and tidy up after yer?’

‘Now, what ʼave I told yer about that, Gracie? Don’t you go wishing for things you ain’t never gonna have—that there’s a whole bucket of misery guaranteed. There’s them that has, and then there’s the rest of us—been like it for donkey’s years.’

‘But them Ruskies did it, didn’t they?’

‘Did what, dear?’

‘They had their little revolution—turned things on their ʼeads.’

‘Russians?—foreigners, the lot of ʼem. Fall for any old tosh, won’t they … Look at that palaver with wossisname, the mad monk—Rice Puddin’?’

‘Rasputin.’

‘That’s the fella. Well, he wouldn’t get a foot in the door at Buck House looking like that now, would he? Workers’ revolution? It’d never happen here, dear. Them Communists—and them Blackshirts too, if it comes to it—well, they can put up the fanny till they’re blue in the face, but you mark my words, they’re never gonna change things for the likes of you and me. Summit hot in yer belly, a snifter of gin to keep the chill off yer, and a tanner for the matinee at the flicks—that’s all the happiness you need wish for. And easily got an’ all … though not tonight, by the looks of things.’

Vera pulled her coat around her against the cold and surveyed the sparse number of potential punters on the street.

‘It’s this soup, ain’t it,’ said Gracie, looking up at the yellow smog clinging to the streetlamp. ‘Coming in thick and fast—bound to scare the punters off.’

Just then a teenage boy—fine-featured, but looking ill-nourished and anxious—crossed the road and stopped to glance around nervously.

‘Talking of buckets of misery, look at this article ʼere, Gracie—queer little thing, ain’t he?’

‘He’s one of the Green Fox mob, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘What, Gilby Siddons’ little chickens? Looks scared of his own shadow, don’t he.’

‘They’re all a little milky at the moment—on account of them murders.’

‘Those two lavenders? The way I heard it they topped themselves.’

‘That’s not what Gilby says. He reckons they were done for. ʼOrrible to think about, ain’t it? A killer like that, out on the streets. Might be our next punter for all we know … Gives me the right willies.’

‘Well, it would have to, wouldn’t it? I mean—you ain’t got the right equipment dear, not if he’s after queanies. Besides, I don’t believe there is a killer. Sounds like one of Gilby’s little dramas to me. Those lavender boys are all so highly strung. No, I reckon they topped themselves like I say—if it were murder, it would have been in the papers, wouldn’t it? Stands to reason.’

The boy set off again, giving Vera and Gracie a wide berth.

‘Gawd! Look at him, Grace—he looks ʼalf done in,’ said Vera, taking a step out after him. ‘ʼEre ducks! How about a little nip of gin to keep out the cold?’

The youth stared back at her for a moment and then set off in the direction of Green Park at a faster pace.

‘Ooh, suit yerself! Silly sod! Out without a smother on a night like this—he’ll catch his death, he will.’ She took a swig of gin from her flask and then, a little reluctantly, passed it to Gracie.

***

The crowds began to thin now as Harley moved away from the Circus and into the Piccadilly thoroughfare. A few yards down he passed the chalk drawings of a screever pitched out on the pavement.

‘Spare summit for an old soldier, guv’nor?’

Harley stooped to drop a coin in the tin mug.

‘Gawd bless yer, son!’

‘You’re welcome, Larry.’

‘Blimey! Sorry, George—I didn’t realize it was you, else I wouldn’t ʼave tapped you up. You got a new hat? You look different somehow.’

‘That’s probably because you’re sober, Larry. Business must be bad.’

‘Tell me about it! It’s shice! I’ve ʼad a tanner between me and starvation most of the week—been living off dog’s soup and wind pudding … And this weather’s no good for the complexion, neither.’ Larry picked up the coin and pocketed it. ‘Still, this’ll get me a bite of something hot—much obliged.’

‘Alright, be lucky Larry.’

‘Lucky? Blimey! That’ll be the day, George.’

***

Leaving the streetwalkers behind him the boy continued stealthily down Piccadilly, checking the reflection whenever he passed a shop window, scanning for signs of danger.

He jumped at the sudden appearance of a heavily-moustachioed commissionaire, who stepped out from a doorway a few paces ahead of him.

‘Oi!’

The boy put his head down and turned around, quickening his pace.

‘Oi you!’

He hesitated, wondering if it would be better to dart down one of the side streets.

‘What’s your game, sunshine? You can’t be leaving that wagon there! You’re blocking the exit!’

The boy turned to discover the commissionaire approaching a carter who was busying himself with a nosebag for his horse. The breath from the weary old nag plumed about its master’s head in the damp night air.

‘I’ll only be five minutes, pal!’

‘Five minutes? Don’t give me that old madam! It was there half an hour last night!’

Relieved, the boy hitched his duffel bag up on his shoulder and turned on his heels to continue on his way—unaware of the figure watching him from the darkened doorway of Fortnum & Mason on the opposite side of the street.

Having finally spotted his quarry the stranger in the shadows completed his permanent half-smile—fixed there by a cruel scar bisecting the cheek—and turned to whisper to his accomplice.

***

‘Oh—look who it ain’t, Grace! Up the workers, George!’ said Vera, catching sight of Harley.

‘Fancy taking us for a wet, Georgie?’ added Gracie, slouching beneath the streetlamp. ‘There’s nix going on ʼere tonight.’

‘I’d love to ladies, but I’m on a job.’

‘Lucky devil—wish I was!’

With a grin and a tip of his hat Harley continued on his way, pursued for a while by Vera’s cackling laughter.

***

Now aware he was being followed, the pale youth hurriedly slipped off the main road into an alleyway. The fog lay heavier here and it wasn’t until he was halfway in that he realized his chosen route of escape culminated in a dead-end, stacked with refuse bins and littered with rubbish from a restaurant kitchen. He made to turn back but was confronted by the silhouettes of his pursuers emerging from the thick smog—a lithe, fluid figure dwarfed by the hulking outline of a giant in a billycock hat.

Panicking, the boy scrambled off to hide behind the bins.

“Iron” Billy Boyd removed his hat to mop the sweat with a grubby handkerchief. He’d let himself go a little since his prize-fighting days and even in the cold and damp the brief jog had begun to raise a lather.

‘ʼEre kitty, kitty!’ he growled, still puffing heavily as he approached the bins.

‘Come now, my little friend,’ added his accomplice with the half-smile scar, in a thick Italian accent. ‘There is no danger … Just a little talk, yes?’

Still out of sight, shaking with fear and cold, the boy quietly pushed his duffel bag down into the bin, hiding it beneath a layer of potato peelings and cabbage stalks.

The enormous Boyd drew a little closer.

‘Come on, son! Don’t make me come in after yer … you’ll only make it worse for yerself!’

Now barely able to control his sobbing, the terrified youth stood up and stepped out from the shadows.

‘What do you want?’

‘Want?’ said the Italian. ‘Only what is ours—the things you have taken … You have them, yes?’

The boy looked to the floor, unable to hold the gaze of those cruel eyes.

‘I … I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he mumbled.

‘No? Maybe my friend here will explain a little better.’

Boyd stepped forward and backhanded the youth across the face, sending him spinning to the ground.

‘That clear enough for yer, sunshine?’

It was at that moment that Harley arrived at the opening to the alleyway, and on hearing the all-too-familiar sounds of someone being roughed up, the private detective stopped and peered into the fog. He was greeted with the dull thud of a boot, followed by a muffled scream. He looked at his watch—he was already twenty minutes late for his appointment. But the victim sounded like a girl, or a kid … he knew he had no choice but to get involved.

After a few cautious steps into the alley he could just make out the shadowy outline of the small Italian, laying into the boy with his boot. Harley fished out his trusty brass knuckles, his weapon of choice—and one that had served him well back in the days of the trench-raiding squad. He was about to make his move when the giant Boyd (who had been crouching down, whispering sweet nothings into his victim’s ear) stood up, towering over his accomplice. At the sight of this oversized brute Harley quickly slipped the knuckleduster back into his pocket, and took a step backwards.

‘Bugger!’ he muttered and began to search through his jacket pockets, finally pulling out a standard-issue Metropolitan Police whistle.

He ran back to the main road and gave a long blast on the whistle, scanning Piccadilly for any sign of Scotland Yard’s finest.

‘Come on!’ he shouted … but apart from a cabbie cleaning the headlamps of his hansom the road was empty.

‘Any coppers about, mate?’ Harley called out.

The cabbie took a quick look at his pocket watch.

‘I doubt it—this is Trent’s beat; right now he’ll have his face buried in a pint of porter at the Argyll Arms, if I’m not mistaken.’

There was nothing else for it. Harley took a deep breath, refitted his brass knuckles and charged back into the alleyway, blowing loudly on the whistle.

On hearing the shriek of the police whistle the Italian immediately pulled back from his victim.

‘Polizia!’ he shouted at Boyd, scanning his surroundings for a quick escape route.

Boyd grabbed the motionless boy by his shirtfront and plucked him from the ground like a doll.

‘Where is it?’ he hissed.

‘Come! No time! Polizia!’ shouted the Italian again, sprinting off towards a high wall at the back of the alley.

Reluctantly Boyd dropped the boy and lumbered off after his partner, who had already effortlessly vaulted over the wall and dropped out of sight. The larger man dragged over an old tea chest, and after a couple of clumsy attempts, managed to haul his huge frame over the brickwork to follow suit.

Having first made sure that there weren’t any nasty surprises lurking in the shadows Harley approached the victim, gently turning him face-up, fearing the worst. To his relief this elicited a groan.

‘What’s your name, son?’

The frightened eyes fell on the whistle in Harley’s hand.

‘It’s alright,’ he said, putting it away along with the knuckleduster. ‘Don’t fret—I’m no bogey, honest! Come on, what’s your name?’

‘Aubrey,’ said the boy, only managing a half-whisper.

‘Well, Aubrey—we need to get you out of here before those two jokers realize I ain’t the cavalry. Who were they anyway? Did you see the little one jump that wall? Like a sodding monkey!’

The boy remained silent.

‘Alright—like that is it? Come on then … can you stand?’

With Harley’s help Aubrey managed to struggle to his feet.

‘Bloody hell! They’ve done a proper job on you, ain’t they?’

‘My bag.’

‘Where?’

‘Over there—in the bin.’

Harley propped the boy against the wall to retrieve the duffel bag, then half-carried him on a slow walk back towards Piccadilly, to the relative safety of the open thoroughfare.

By the time they’d reached the street and Harley had placed the injured boy into the cab, Boyd and the Italian had doubled back and were now observing proceedings from a safe distance.

‘That ain’t no bogey,’ said Boyd.

‘Eh?’

‘Not a po-lit-sia.’

‘No? Who then?’

‘He’s a sherlock.’

‘Jew-boy?’ The Italian raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘No, not Shylock, a sherlock—a private detective; although, funnily enough, he does knock about with Yids; Yids, brasses and bolshies—he ain’t too particular by all accounts.’

‘Hmm … Where will he take the boy?’

‘I dunno—but I’ll find out.’

‘He has a name, this, this sherlock?’

‘Yeah, Harley—George Harley.’

CHAPTER TWO

Three days later a weary George Harley stopped for a moment on the corner of Bell Street to tease a hole in the clammy, vinegar-scented package under his arm. He popped a chip into his mouth and tipped his hat back an inch or so to prod the burgeoning lump just above the hairline—a souvenir of the frenzied finale of an otherwise tedious stakeout at a Tilbury warehouse.

Getting too old for this malarkey, he thought, as he pushed on through the dull ache in his lower back and the more insistent throbbing in his left shin.

As he mounted the front steps, searching his pockets for his keys, the door of the adjoining townhouse opened to reveal the generous figure of his next-door neighbour, Violet Coleridge.

‘Ah! The wanderer returns,’ said Violet, restraining her ample bosom with one arm as she bent to deposit an empty milk bottle on the top step. ‘Oh my gawd, George! You look done in! Where you been?’

‘Tilbury docks.’

‘And what you been up to there, then?’

‘Well, that’s a good question Vi.’

‘Second thoughts—don’t tell me. What you don’t know can’t ʼarm you, that’s what my Eric used to say. Mind you—I think the reason he always kept quiet about what he was up to was so that I couldn’t let anything slip to the bogeys if they came snooping round. Still, those days are long gone now, aren’t they? Fancy a cuppa, dear? The pot’s still warm.’

‘I’d love to Vi, but I think I’ll just get this down me and then get some kip—I need my bed.’

‘What you need is the love of a good woman, George Harley, that’s what you need—someone to look after you. After all, it’s got to be two years now, hasn’t it? Why don’t you—’

‘Now, don’t start all that again, Vi! By the way—have you been up to see Aubrey today?’

‘What, the iron?’

‘Vi!’

‘Well, he is a poof, ain’t he? Right little lavender boy, if ever I saw one. I was up earlier as it happens. I’d say he’s on the mend, alright—he’s been out of bed today. Still won’t have the quack round though—I told him you’d offered to pay.’

‘He’s scared Vi—they gave him a proper going over. One of the cowsons was a giant … You should’ve seen him—a couple of minutes more and I reckon I’d have had a corpse on my hands.’

‘Well, he probably brought it on himself. After all, I’m sure we can all guess what he was up to in a backstreet off the Dilly at that time of night. The other two were probably of the same persuasion an’ all. It’s not natural, is it?’ said Vi, crossing her fleshy arms and pursing her lips.

‘Come on—he’s only a kid, from some god-forsaken little town in the back-of-beyond; no doubt kicked out by his old man, finds himself in The Smoke, all alone—you know how it works.’

‘Well, I’m sure I don’t know how it works, George. I suppose he won’t be pestering up any rent while he’s staying with you? You wanna watch it—you’ll get yourself a reputation.’

‘Once he’s up and about he’ll be on his way.’

‘And by the way—he’s ruined the mantle on the gas up there by lighting his ciggies on it … You know, George, if you did the place up a bit, got some paying tenants in … well, you could give this private detective lark up for good; relax a bit. I’m sure that’s what your Uncle Blake had in mind when he left you the place. Just think of it—you’d be a landlord. It’s not a bad living when all’s said and done. And the company would do you good, Georgie—rattling around in that big old house all on your tod, except for that mangy old tomcat of yours; and your little charity cases, of course. This one’s the third this year, ain’t it? There was that old soldier boy, then the Rusky with the gammy leg; all staying there buckshee. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were being taken for a ride.’

‘Come on, Vi—what harm does it do? As you say, I’ve got the space. Anyone would do the same given the opportunity.’

‘You’re a soft touch—that’s what you are.’

‘Oh yeah? Well, no doubt you took him up some grub when you went up earlier?’

‘Well, I’d done a bit of kate and sidney for Mr. Johnson in number three—it’s his favourite. And well, it’s a sin to let good food go to waste, so I—’

‘You wanna watch yourself, Vi—you’ll be getting a reputation!’ Harley cracked a smile. ‘Universal brotherhood, that’s all it is—looking out for your fellow man.’

‘Don’t come your old bolshie fanny with me, George Harley! It won’t wash. Now—go and get that grub inside you, while it’s still hot.’

Harley retrieved his front door key from his jacket.

‘What’s all this?’ He pulled a leaflet from the letter box. ‘Sodding BBF? They’ve not been canvassing round here again, have they?’

‘There was a couple round earlier; nice boys—real healthy-looking types, you know? One of them had a touch of the Gary Coopers about him. And those uniforms, George—oh, they do look smart.’

‘I’d have thought we’d all had enough of uniforms, Vi … but maybe that’s just me.’

‘But that’s just it—all those things they promised you boys when you came home. Well, where is it all, eh? I don’t know … what with all the strikes, two and a half million poor buggers on the dole, the Empire falling apart. The country’s gone to the dogs, George … and I’m afraid your precious Mr. Ramsay MacDonald has made as big a hash of it as the rest of ʼem. And now, on top of everything else, we’ve got all these anarchist bombings! Bloody foreigners! Someone needs to sort it all out.’

‘Believe me—that someone is not Sir Pelham Saint Clair and the British Brotherhood of Fascists. You should listen to what Max Portas has to say about him—he talks a lot of sense.’

‘I’ve told you before, George—I’ve had it with your Labour Party. They had their chance—and look what they did with it. Besides, his old man’s a commie, ain’t he? “Red Jack Portas”—remember? The fruit don’t often fall far from the tree.’

‘Maybe that’s not such a bad thing—Jack Portas is as honourable a man as I’d like to meet; fought all his life for workers’ rights. He did sterling work in the dock strike of eighty-nine.’ Harley stifled a yawn. ‘Listen Vi, I’d love to discuss this further with you, but maybe another time? I really need to get some shut-eye.’

‘Oh, sorry George! Listen to me on me soapbox! I’ll be up Speaker’s Corner next. Of course dear, you get yourself away. I’ll—’

‘Hold on Vi—what was that?’ asked Harley, carefully resting his fish and chips on the wall and vaulting over to push Vi’s front door open wide.

‘What was what?’

A long, wailing scream emanated from Vi’s hallway.

‘That!’ said Harley, sprinting up the stairs.

‘Sounds like Miss Perkins, in number six—on the top floor!’ Vi shouted up after him.

By the time the portly landlady—now flushed and out of breath—had caught up with Harley, he was already crouched in front of a near-hysterical Miss Perkins, holding tightly to her wrists. The normally timid young woman was thrashing about, struggling to catch her breath between frantic sobs, with angry red scratches below her cheeks and a thin line of spittle hanging from her chin.

‘Oh my gawd, George! What’s going on?’

‘Don’t know, Vi—she’s not making any sense. But the window’s open, and when I got here she was sat on the bed, scratching at her face, shouting something about a mask.’

‘A mask? Tabitha! Look at me dear; stop thrashing about so! Tabitha … Tabitha! Oh, out the way George!’

Vi bent over her tenant to deliver a solid slap to the face with a heavy, be-ringed hand.

‘There, there … it’s alright now,’ she said, planting herself on the bed next to Miss Perkins, who had been shocked enough by the slap to at least make eye-contact. ‘Now dear, tell us what happened.’

‘I was getting ready for my bath … getting … getting undressed … for my bath, you see. I always have my bath on a Friday, at eight-thirty.’

‘Yes, dear—but what happened? Was it a man? Did a man get in somehow, Tabitha?’

‘No, no—he didn’t come in. He was out there … out there—on the fire escape. A foreigner … with a mask.’

‘Oh my gawd, George! It’s one of those anarchist buggers—it’s got to be!’

‘Hold on Vi, we don’t know anything yet. Tabitha, can you tell us what he looked like? What kind of a mask was it?’

‘I was smoking a cigarette … over there. I don’t like the stale smoke in the room, you see? I was smoking … then he was just there, out of nowhere … a mask a bit like, a bit like Tragedy … said something foreign … something I couldn’t … he blew me a kiss! He blew on my face, blew something on my face, on my face—’ She began to frantically scratch at herself again.

Vi grabbed at the flailing wrists and Miss Perkins promptly vomited down her nightshirt.

Harley walked over to the window and poked his head out to inspect the fire escape.

‘You’re not thinking of going out there, are you George? That old thing’s rotten.’

‘I know the bit leading down is missing, but it still looks pretty solid up here. If it took this bloke’s weight … I’d better take a look up on the roof, Vi—he might still be around. Is there anyone else about who can give you a hand?’

‘Only Mrs. Cartwright in number four … oh, and little Johnny’s in the basement doing the boots—everyone else is out,’ said Vi, pouring water from the urn into the wash basin.

Miss Perkins now sprang bolt upright, her face contorted in a paroxysm of pain. She writhed silently on the bed for a moment, her arms twisting and jerking in a deranged dance, the hands contracted into jagged claws. Then, to Vi’s horror, she began to bark—short, high-pitched yelps at first which soon developed into a strange canine howl.

‘Oh my good gawd!’ exclaimed Vi, trying to calm her lodger with the vigorous application of a wet flannel.

‘Don’t bother with that now—she needs medical help. Looks like she’s been poisoned with something, or maybe it’s some kind of fit. Get Mrs. Cartwright to sit with her. Tell Johnny to run down to get Dr. Jaggers and then to look for a constable—Burnsey should be out on his beat somewhere nearby. You go and check on Aubrey—the fire escape joins up with the one outside of my spare room, so he may have seen something. If he’s up to it, get him to come and sit with you all—there’s strength in numbers. Here are my keys. Oh, and Uncle Blake’s swordstick is in the umbrella-stand, just inside the front door—take it up with you. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve checked out the roof.’

‘Oh George, do be careful! No one’s been on that old escape for years. How on earth d’you think he got up there? My gawd, it’s just like Spring-Heeled Jack all over again.’

‘Now, don’t get your knickers in a twist. There’ll be a perfectly logical explanation to it all,’ said Harley, hauling himself out of the window. ‘Go and get help—I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

The wrought iron walkway gave an inch or so as it took Harley’s weight, then emitted a low groan with each subsequent cautious step he took, almost as if it were warning him against risking the three-storey plunge to the pavement below. But he pushed on regardless, conquering his natural instinct to return to the safety of the room. After a tense couple of minutes he’d reached the parapet of the flat roof and hurriedly stepped over with a great sense of relief.

He rested against the wall for a moment and looked around. The tightly-packed rooftops of Fitzrovia spread out before him, their chimneys trickling smoke into a lowering blanket of cloud that covered the capital, still orange-tinged to the West, but already merging with the night in the East. He now took stock of his immediate surroundings: he was on the flat roof of Vi’s townhouse which was separated from the roof of his own building by a small dividing up-stand. A two-foot-high parapet ran around the perimeter and in one corner was a small shed-like structure with a collection of old paint pots stacked up against it.

Harley now looked down at his feet and saw that he was standing in a shallow gutter that followed the edge of the roof. He crouched down and touched his hand to the thin layer of sludge that lined this gutter; it was wet, and in it—alongside his own ox-blood brogue—was the distinct imprint of some smaller, rounder-toed shoe. Harley glanced up at the shed and felt in his jacket for his brass knuckles. All his aches and pains had disappeared now, the adrenalin kicking his heart rate up a notch or two as he slipped his hand into the heavy metal ring and made his way quickly and quietly towards the wooden shack.

He placed his ear to the weather-beaten door, held his breath and listened: the distant murmur of traffic drifted up from Tottenham Court Road … the gentle clopping of a horse’s hooves from a nearby lane … a mother calling in her brood for supper … the toot of an engine from Euston station. But from the shed there was nothing.

Harley took a step back, carefully placed his fingers around the rusted handle and yanked open the door.

There was a loud crashing sound as his face was battered repeatedly by something white and grey. With an involuntary shout of surprise Harley closed his eyes and stumbled back into the pile of old paint pots, sending them clattering across the roof. He struck out blindly with his fists, but failed to make any contact. He opened his eyes, desperate to get a bearing on his assailant, just in time to see a shabby pigeon fluttering off above the rooftops.

‘You mug!’ he said, jumping up and dusting off his trousers. ‘Come on, Georgie boy—get a grip!’

There was no other hiding place in view; either the intruder had found a means of escape, or—more likely—he was a figment of Miss Perkins’ hysteria. Just to tie up any loose ends Harley began to make a slow patrol of the perimeter of the roofs.

The light was fading fast now, but he was satisfied that there were no other footprints in the gutter; maybe the one he’d found was simply one of his own, distorted by the angle of his step as he cleared the parapet? At one end the roof abutted the side of an old Victorian blacking factory—now a dry goods warehouse—a sheer brick wall rising twenty feet or so above him; there was no way anyone could have escaped in that direction. And the decrepit fire escape that he’d climbed up was just a one-storey remnant, leaving a two-storey drop to the pavement below—again, impossible as a means of escape. That just left the edge of the roof adjacent to Tallow Street—the entrance to the old market place. Harley made his way to the edge and peered over. Approximately five feet below him was the thin edge of a brick wall that formed an arch across the street, from which hung the market sign. Well, it wasn’t impossible; someone with sufficient acrobatic skill could perhaps lower themselves down onto the wall, manoeuvre somehow onto the sign, and then swing themselves down onto the street. He thought back to the Piccadilly alleyway—the way the smaller assailant had vaulted cat-like over the brick wall to make his escape.

Harley now squatted down and leant further over to get a better look—yes, there was a gap in the top course and he could just make out what looked like broken fragments of house brick in the street below.

Just then he heard a shriek from the direction of the fire escape.

He dashed back across the roof and lowered himself carefully onto the ironwork, shuffling as quickly as he dared back to the open window.

‘George … George!’

It was Vi. But her shouting wasn’t coming from Miss Perkin’s room, it was coming from further along the fire escape—from his own house. He made the extra few yards and then yanked up the sash window and threw himself awkwardly into the room.

Harley took in the scene with a professional’s eye: the dark puddle congealing on the floorboards; the mother-of-pearl-handled razor gripped loosely in the grubby, nail-bitten fingers; the leaden pallor on the boyish cheek.

There was a call from the floor below.

‘Police! Anyone there?’

‘Up here, Burnsey! Top floor!’ shouted Harley, already at Aubrey’s throat, searching for a pulse.

A thump of heavy footsteps announced PC Burns’ arrival.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’ said the policeman, removing his helmet and rushing over to crouch down beside the bed. ‘Any luck?’

But as Harley drew back the only sign of life Burns could see in the boy’s face came from the two tiny facsimiles of the guttering gas mantle, dancing in the dull pupils.

Continued….

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Mask of the Verdoy: A George Harley Mystery (Book #1)

Mask of the Verdoy: A George Harley Mystery (Book #1)

by Phil Lecomber