those qualities most of all by choosing Helen Scott for your wife…’
He paused and Tom wondered what alarming or delicate errand was in prospect.
‘I would like you to visit Major Marmont and take an affidavit from him. He possesses an unusual item; an ornamental or ceremonial dagger which has, he says, a curious value. The handle is carved with figures. It was the gift of some prince or maharaja out east. But a rumour to the effect that he might have come by it, ah, illicitly is doing the rounds. Marmont wishes to make a statement under oath as to how he acquired the dagger. It should be an interesting story.’
‘But it could be no more than that — just a story. Straight out of Wilkie Collins, as you say.’
‘Sebastian Marmont is an honest fellow if I’m any judge. He is an officer and an English gentleman.’
‘As well as being a magician,’ said Tom, still not quite crediting this bizarre combination.
‘It’s an odd thing but I believe magicians in general are honest folk. At least they make no bones about tricking you, which takes a kind of honesty.’
‘Will he be believed though?’ said Tom, thinking it was peculiar that Mackenzie’s words were an echo of what Helen’s mother had said about magicians. ‘Will Major Marmont be believed even if he swears an affidavit?’
‘Those who want to think ill of Major Marmont will continue to do so but others may be swayed by knowing he has made such a statement.’
‘Where is this gentleman magician playing at the moment? In London?’
‘Why no, he is touring in the north of the country for the summer. You can catch up with him in York or Durham.’
‘In Durham?’
‘Yes, a very fine city.’
‘Forgive me for asking, Mr Mackenzie, but has Mrs Scott been in touch with you? Helen’s mother?’
‘She has spoken to me, I’m prepared to admit. I understand that there is some family problem which she wishes Helen to deal with in Durham. But my request to you is separate from that, quite separate, although you will be able to kill two birds with a single stone, as it were. Of course you should accompany your wife on her journey north. As I say, it should make an interesting trip. You can listen to old Marmont’s tales of the orient.’
David Mackenzie paused to fiddle with his pipe. He squinted at Tom through the fug, as if the other might raise some objection. But Tom couldn’t think of anything to say. It was an odd task, going to see a retired army man about a ceremonial dagger, but not so very odd perhaps. Lawyers were sometimes expected to do out-of- the-way things. The coincidence was that Durham had been mentioned as a destination a couple of times in as many weeks. He suspected collusion between Mrs Scott and Mr Mackenzie, especially because they seemed to have the same opinion of magicians. He’d discuss it with Helen when he got home.
But before that Tom dropped in on Ashley, the senior clerk.
‘A strange affair as you said, Mr Ashley. This business of the dagger and so on.’
‘Ah, the Dagger of Lucknow,’ said Ashley.
‘Lucknow?’
‘In northern India. Consult your atlas, Mr Ansell.’
‘It is quicker to consult you, Mr Ashley. Next you’ll be telling me the dagger is cursed, I suppose.’
Tom meant it as a joke and was surprised to see Ashley’s forehead grow even more corrugated.
‘It may not be cursed exactly but there is a story attached to it. During the siege of Lucknow… you have heard of that, Mr Ansell?’
‘The siege in the Mutiny?’
‘Yes, the Indian Mutiny. A historic event within your lifetime and well within mine. It seems that our client, Major Sebastian Marmont, acquired the dagger while undertaking a dangerous mission. He was a junior officer at the time. It appears he was given the dagger as a gift by his Indian companion.’
‘You say “seems” and “appears”, Mr Ashley.’
‘I have been working at this firm since… well, for a long time, Mr Ansell. I am cautious when I venture an opinion or report a story. I do know for a fact, however, that there was some question about the provenance of the Lucknow Dagger. A few years ago Major Marmont got wind of some tittle-tattle which was to appear in one of the London papers and he instructed us to send a letter, a shot across the bows if you like. Nothing was published.’
‘But now the rumours have started again.’
‘So it seems.’
‘This Major Marmont is really a magician? I could hardly believe it when Mr Mackenzie said so.’
‘Oh yes. Mr Mackenzie has a soft spot for magicians. He — that is, Mr Mackenzie — used to do conjuring tricks for his children at Christmas.’
‘I did not even know that the Mackenzies had children,’ said Tom, forgetting the magic tricks and remembering instead the tall and bony Mrs Mackenzie.
‘Well, Mr Ansell, we have an office life and a home life, you know. Some of us like to keep them separate.’
This unexpected remark naturally made Tom speculate about Mr Ashley’s home life, something he’d never done before. It occurred to him he did not even know Mr Ashley’s first name. Now was not the moment to ask. Instead he thanked the senior clerk.
When Tom got home that evening he found Helen in a distracted, almost distressed state. He’d been looking forward to telling her about the Lucknow Dagger and planning for their journey to Durham. But first she had something to show him. It was an item from a two-day-old copy of The Register. Helen had been about to put aside the newspaper so that Hetty could use it for lining shelves when a heading caught her eye. The heading was Another Waterloo Suicide? As Tom read the news item, he felt himself grow cold.
A body recovered yesterday from the Thames has been identified by the authorities as that of Mr Ernest Smight of 67 Tullis Street near the British Museum. It is believed that Mr Smight fell or jumped to his death from Waterloo Bridge. The toll-keeper, Mr Lind, recalls a person of Mr Smight’s description crossing the bridge from the north bank on Monday evening at around 10 o’clock. Mr Lind says, ‘The gentleman was well dressed for a mild summer evening. I particularly remarked upon his thick clothing. He also neglected to take the change of five pennies from the sixpence which he tendered. Five whole pennies! I had to call him back to my booth and he did not thank me for it. I am certain this was the individual later recovered from the river.’
Mr Smight, believed to be in his early sixties, was a well-known medium who had practised his trade for many years in the purlieus of Tottenham Court Road. According to the authorities his establishment in Tullis Street had recently been visited by members of the police force who were acting on information received. His sister Miss Ethel Smight, who used to assist Mr Smight in his sittings, said that her brother was deeply upset by the intrusion of the police into affairs that were confidential and ‘of a delicate nature’. She went so far as to talk of ‘persecution’. Although she was too overwrought to speculate as to why her brother might have taken his own life, if that is what has occurred, we understood that the unfortunate demise of this individual may be connected with the possibility of a forthcoming legal action. A coroner’s jury will shortly pronounce on the death of Mr Ernest Smight.
‘Oh God,’ said Tom.
‘Yes,’ said Helen. ‘I have had the whole day to think this over. I’ve read the story again and again. I couldn’t help thinking that the medium warned about the danger to us, the danger near water, and now he is drowned.’
‘I am sorry for it,’ said Tom, though he wasn’t sure whether he was saying sorry to Helen or expressing regret about the whole Smight business. One advantage, the only one, was that there could now be no court case and so no need for witnesses.
‘Why was he dressed in those thick clothes?’ said Helen, breaking into his thoughts.
‘I don’t know. Probably because he thought they’d drag him down more quickly.’
‘Ugh. Horrid thought. That’s if it was a suicide.’
‘What else can it have been? It would be hard to fall off Waterloo Bridge by accident. Besides, we know some of the circumstances that led up to it.’
‘We do know the circumstances, but I can’t help feeling we have a hand in this, somehow.’
‘We didn’t unmask Mr Smight, Helen. That policeman, Seldon, did it. Smight was an impostor.’
‘An impostor who had a glimpse of your late father.’
Tom had forgotten this or rather had done his best to forget it. Now he said, ‘I’m sure the medium got the
