Chapter One
Journalist On Assignment

At his office in the building of the London Sentinel, John Earl Alcott sat in front of his desk and operated his typewriter, a novelty of the time which every office in the building possessed. John was sixty, with his formerly dark hair now dominated by white. He wore a pair of half-moon spectacles and a brown sack suit which gave him an air of wisdom.

A knock came from the door.

"Come in," he said.

A young woman who seemed dressed for mourning entered. It was Louisa Anne, his niece, who was staying with him and his wife.

"Good morning, Louisa,"
"Good morning, Uncle," she replied in a cheery voice, "I have some good news."
"Oh, what?"
"I've been accepted as an apprentice to the Photography Department."
"Oh, congratulations!" The Photography Department did not usually accept women, and were very elitist.
"Thank you, and I received my first assignment today."
"What is it?"
"I'm to accompany you to a Baker Street apartment,"
"Why, what's in Baker Street?"
"A murder; horrible stuff, really. You'll do the interview, I'll take pictures."
"I fancy that the Head Photographer would have chosen a better assignment than this."
"Don't worry," she brushed a stray lock of raven hair back, "I was a nurse in Africa, remember?"

He sighed. There was no arguing with her, she was an Alcott, part of a long line of barristers, ministers of government, and Members of Parliament used to voicing their opinions.

"Alright," he said, "get your equipment. We'll go."
~o~o~o~
They took a coach from the building at 23 Tottenham Court Road to the Baker Street apartment. John carried his papers in a small dispatch case, while Louisa Anne took along a camera, some photographic plates, and a tripod.

They got down at 221A Baker Street and looked at the apartment. It was a tall, upright brick building whose windows had potted plants on them, a contrast to the dirty, dusty city in which they sat.

Louisa set up her equipment and snapped a photograph of the building before they walked up to the front door and knocked. A man wearing a sack suit with a bulge on the side opened it.

"Who are you?" he asked imperatively.
"Good morning, Detective Constable," John replied, "I am John Alcott, and this is Miss Louisa Alcott. We are from the London Sentinel."
"Hold on a minute," said the man, "how do you know my rank?"
"Sir, I used to be in the Army, and unless I'm mistaken, that bulge in your coat is a revolver."
"Well, that's right, but what about my rank?"
"Why else would you be asking us who we are?"

They were allowed in and detained under suspicion by the Scotland Yard detectives in the entrance. A portly man sporting a mustache and a black frock coat came down the stairs.

"Who are they?" he asked.
"They're journalists, sir," a constable answered.
"Mr. John Alcott, if you please," said John, "and my niece, Louisa."

The man walked toward them and shook his hand, he then kissed Louisa's gloved hand before introducing himself.

"I am Detective Inspector Charles Johns," he said, "I'm head of the CID team in this case."
"Can we ask you some questions?" John asked.
"Later, first, we see the scene of the tragedy."

They followed him upstairs, into an apartment marked 'No. 19,' where a man with a very bloody shirt was sprawled face-up on the floor. John felt his stomach pitch and looked at his niece, who grimaced.

"The victim was Arthur Knight," said Inspector Johns, "forty-three, a barrister from Gloucestershire, where he had family."
"Who saw him last?" John asked.
"Jeffrey Lucius," there was a note of contempt as he said the name. Obviously Inspector Johns did not think very highly of the Baker Street Vigilance Committee chairman.

John walked around, taking note of every detail in the room. There was an armchair with a round table in front of it. The table held a glass of wine and a bottle of Amontillado. There were various bric-a-brac on the shelves around the room. In the corner was a bed whose sheets appeared to have been recently disturbed, and on the bedside table was a kerosene lamp and a book.

"Was he a rich man?" he asked.
"Obviously, though the Amontillado was not bought."

The Inspector took a card from his coat pocket and handed it to him. He read it:

"To Mr. A Knight: Long life and happiness!
- Mr. J. Finnigan"

"This is strange," he muttered.
"How so?" the Inspector asked.
"It's in a feminine hand," said Louisa, following his thoughts.
"How do you know?"
"Who better to know a feminine hand than a woman?"

The two eyed each other with contempt. John intervened.

"Who is this Finnigan character?"
"Have you ever heard of the London Society?" asked the Inspector.
"No, I can't say I have,"
"Group of bandits, running the London underworld. They're said to be led by an Irish Catholic named Joseph Finnigan, and this confirms it."
"How?"
"Art Knight was on a team of barristers litigating for the city in a case against the Society, and now Joe's got him."
"What if it wasn't him?" Louisa asked.
"It's him, alright. No good can come out of Ireland or or the Papists."

This remark offended both John and Louisa. Both of them were Catholic, like their Alcott ancestors, and Louisa half-Irish from her mother's side.

"Sir," said John coolly, "why don't you just put every Catholic in prison, then?"
"Impossible, there are too many."

Louisa snapped a shot of the Inspector before they trooped out of the room.

"Arrogant bully," said Louisa.
"I agree," John replied, "but we have to put up with his type."
"To the best of our abilities."

They knocked on the door facing number 19, which, they were informed, belonged to Jeffrey Lucius, who was the last person in the apartment to see the victim before he died.

It was Lucius himself who opened the door. He was an athletic-looking fellow, middle-aged, with a pencil-thin mustache. He seemed to be just an average British businessman in the black sack suit, stiff-collared shirt and necktie which that class of people wore.

"Good morning, sir," said John, "I'm John Alcott, this is Miss Louisa Alcott, and we are from the London Sentinel."
"Ah, come in," said Mr. Lucius, smiling, "make yourselves at home."

They entered the austerely furnished room whose window was opened to the noise of the city below. There were no decorations anywhere, even the brown wallpaper was utilitarian. It was clearly the home of a no-nonsense man.

"Please sit down," said Lucius, indicating two cushioned chairs. They sat down while he served them tea and biscuits. After that, he sat opposite them. "So, what do you want to know?"
"What kind of man was Mr. Knight?" asked John.
"Well, let's see . . . Mr. Knight was not the troublesome type. I remember that he never started or got involved in fights, always responsible."
"Who do you think would have any motive to kill him?"
"Lots of people. Remember, he was a barrister, and those people make lots of friends and enemies."
"Do you have anyone particular in mind?"
"I would say somebody from the London Society, although I don't know anyone there."
"Why them?"
"The cases of Mr. Knight's barrister team, representing the city of London, were nearly always won by them. They put many of the Society's ringleaders in jail, so someone might have wanted him dead."

John considered this for a moment, then scribbled a few notes in his notebook. He then closed the notebook, using his pencil as a bookmark.

"If you don't mind me asking, how was your relationship with Mr. Knight?" he asked.
"Well, we were not really friends, but we were not enemies either. We were what could be called 'nodding acquaintances.'"
"Thank you, that won't be recorded, by the way."
"Why not?"
"Oh, it was just a matter of private curiosity," he reopened his notebook. "Was Mr. Knight with someone when you saw him last night?"
"Yes,"
"Who was it?"
"Someone named Mr. Porter, whom I didn't know."
"Were they talking about anything?"
"They were talking about twenty-three thousand pounds and the Society, though I don't know why."
"How do you know this?"
Mr. Lucius hesitated for a while, then said:
"Yesterday, after I came home from the headquarters of the Vigilance Committee, I was about to enter my room when I heard them."
"Oh, I see,"
"How did this Mr. Porter look like?" asked Louisa, interrupting for the first time.
"He had a great bushy beard, a long coat, and he wore tinted glasses, so I assume he had an eye problem."
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Lucius," said John, standing. "If you have anymore details, please pay me a visit or send me a telegram."

He gave him a card, and Louisa snapped a picture of him before they proceeded to the door. Halfway there, Mr. Lucius called them.

"Yes?" asked John.
"Can you keep a secret, sir?"
"Of course,"
Lucius sighed, then said:
"Before he died, Mr. Knight told me about the London Society case which the city's barrister team is working on, and he gave me an assignment."
"What is the nature of this assignment?"
"He charged me and the Baker Street Vigilance Committee to disrupt the Society's criminal activities."
"That sounds dangerous," said Louisa.
"It is," Mr. Lucius replied, "but he told me not to worry because the Queen's Justice is on our side."
"It should be,"
"Oh, and when he died, I heard footsteps outside the door."
"When was this?"
"At twelve midnight,"
"What kind of footsteps were they?" asked Louisa.
"Heavy footsteps, like a big man's."
"They might have been the murderer's," said John, "if murder it is."
"Oh, I grant you, sir," said Mr. Lucius, "there was definitely foul play."
~o~o~o~
They left the room after the interview and saw Inspector Johns outside the hall with a detective constable. He asked them what they had found out from Jeffrey Lucius.

"He suspects that it's murder, and that the Society did it," said John.
"Oh, we know it's murder. Come with me."

They entered the victim's apartment, which was as they had found it, with the body still lying on the floor.

"Has anyone come to take the body away?" asked Louisa.
"No, they haven't come yet," the Inspector replied.

John looked at the body, taking note of every detail. The shirt front was splashed with blood, with a narrow rip through the heart and two on either side of it.

"What are those?" he asked.
"Those are the places where the knife which killed him entered," Inspector Johns replied.
"How are we sure that a knife killed him?" asked Louisa.
"Now, Louisa, since it's the first thing there, it must be," said John.
"Uncle, remember, I was a nurse. I know that what appears to have killed someone may not be the cause of death at all."
"Preposterous!" cried the Inspector. "What do you know? You are only a silly g—"
"She may be right, Inspector," said John, pointing to the table.

Louisa and the Inspector followed his finger and saw, on the table, the bottle of Amontillado and a glass which was half-filled with the liquid. Inspector Johns looked at it, then at him, with a strange expression on his face.

"What do you mean?" he demanded.
"May I have that card?" said John.

The Inspector, his face reddening, rummaged in his coat and thrust a card into his hand.

"'To Mr. A. Knight,'" he read out, "'long life and happiness. Signed, Mr. J. Finnigan.'"
"Ironic, isn't it?" said Louisa.
"Look," said the Inspector impatiently, "what in the world are you driving up at?"
"Sir, I think my niece may be right. Perhaps Mr. Knight was poisoned before he was stabbed."
"Impossible! We have not detected anything in the wine."
"At least, not yet. But if you send it to the laboratory to be analyzed . . ."
"Out! Get out!" he thundered. "You're not the bloody Scotland Yard man, I am!"
"Alright, then. Come, Louisa, we have to interview the landlady."

They left the room, and from the corner of his eye, John saw the Inspector collect a few drops of the wine in a test tube and deposit it in a brown dispatch case.
~o~o~o~
The landlady, Mrs. Agnes Brown, was a seventy-one year old widow. She lived downstairs, and her room's door was beside the stairs.

She invited them inside her cozy, three-roomed apartment. They sat on cushioned seats across the table from the green armchair where she sat while they interviewed her.

"What kind of person was Mr. Knight?" John asked.
"He was a very kind person," she replied, "a proper gentleman. Such a tragedy that he died."
"Were you a friend of his?"
"I was. I am friends with everyone in this apartment."
"How many tenants do you have?"
"Well, let's see . . . the Cavendishes moved out last week, and that Indian barrister Mr. Singh moved out two weeks before, and then Mr. Knight died, so that leaves us with only one at the moment, Mr. Lucius."
"Did these people, those who moved out, have any grievances against Mr. Knight?"
"No, of course not. Mr. Knight was not the troublesome type."
"So no one you knew might have wanted to kill him?"
"None, as far as I know," she said, then added, "are you, by any chance, special constables?"
"No, ma'am," Louisa replied, "we are simply journalists doing our work."
Mrs. Brown seemed relieved.
"Police today, you know," she said, "seem like a bunch of spies. Have you anymore questions?"
"Mr. Knight had a visitor before he died?" said John.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, he had two."
"Two?"
"Yes, one of them was that sinister bearded fellow, and the other one I heard, but did not see."
"When did the second visitor come?"
"At midnight, after the first one left."
John and Louisa looked at each other.
"After the first one left?" Louisa repeated.
"A few minutes after, yes."
"What did you hear?" asked John.
"Footsteps. Heavy ones."
"Like a big man's?"
"Indeed."

John though about this for a moment. Who were these mysterious people who visited Mr. Knight before he died?

"How do you that the heavy-steps man visited Mr. Knight?" he asked.
"You see, Mr. Knight's door has rusty hinges. They have not been oiled in a long time. After I heard the footsteps, there was a knock, and an audible creak informed me that he had a visitor."
"No other doors in the house creak?" asked Louisa.
"I always oil the doors of the empty rooms. Mr. Lucius oils the hinges on his door. Mr. Knight, having been a busy person, never had the time to do that, and couldn't be bothered to do so."
"When Mr. Knight's door opened, were there any noises?"
"What sort of noises?"
"Like a struggle."
"No, there weren't any. I heard Mr. Knight greet the newcomer, and he addressed him as 'Your Grace,' whatever that means."
"That is very significant, Mrs. Brown," said Louisa solemnly.
"How so?"
"If that man was the murderer, it must mean that he was murdered by a nobleman."
"A nobleman? Countesses and viscounts and all that?"
"Yes, indeed. Uncle, which rank in the peerage has that address?"
"If I'm not mistaken, that's a duke."
"A duke, in my apartment!" cried Mrs. Brown.
"Unfortunately, that complicates things for us," said John.
"How so? asked Louisa.
"How are a barrister, a criminal society, and a duke connected?"

To that question, not even the shrewd Louisa had an answer.
~o~o~o~
"And what did you find out from Mrs. Brown?" asked Inspector Johns, who seemed to be interested in their inquiries.
"That Mr. Knight was visited, probably, by a duke before he died." John replied.
"Oh, really? A duke?"
"Yes, and that he probably murdered Mr. Knight," said Louisa.

Here Inspector Johns frowned, stroking his mustache with a cryptic expression on his face.

"That's complicated. Dukes, as you well know, are in a high position, and if this one happens to be particularly favored . . ." the Inspector's words trailed off, but they got his message.
"Of course, there is always the chance that this duke didn't murder him."

The Inspector didn't reply to John's words. Instead, he took out a small pocketbook bound in brown leather and handed it to him.

"What is this?" asked John, studying the book.
"It is the victim's diary," Inspector Johns replied, "I am commissioning you to decode it."

He flipped it open and read it. The language was not English, but French.

"It's written in French," said John.
"I know," the Inspector replied.
"Do you know how to speak it?"
"It's a requirement for detectives, I know, but unfortunately I've forgotten my French. Can you translate and decode it?"
"I can translate it, I studied in Paris, after all, but what about decoding it?"
"Some parts of it, from what I remember, seem to be written in a sort of secret code."
"I'm afraid codes are not my forte, that's up to my wife and niece."
"Uncle," said Louisa, "I don't know how to speak French."
"Don't worry, I'll translate, and you work on it with your Aunt Mary."
"That sounds fine,"
"Do you agree, then?" asked the Inspector.
"Yes," John and Louisa replied.
"Then you are, until the close of this case, civilian assistants of the Criminal Investigation Department."
~o~o~o~
They returned to the London Sentinel offices after a ride in a coach. John returned to his office, while Louisa went to develop her photographs.

John opened his notes and studied them, then began typing away an article on his typewriter. As he wrote, several ideas entered his mind.

What were these visitors doing?
What were these "codes" that the Inspector mentioned?
Who were these former tenants and what type of relationship did they have with Mr. Knight?

A knock came from outside, interrupting his thoughts.

"Come in," he said.

Louisa entered, carrying her dispatch case.

"Uncle," she said, "you have to see these."

She took out a photograph from her case and showed it to him. It was a close-up shot of the victim's face, and it was startling because of one thing: there was no expression of shock in it.

"Strange," said John, "I was a soldier in the Crimean War, as you know, and not a single person who was stabbed had this expression."
"What does it prove?" asked Louisa.
"Either that he was stabbed after death, or your idea that he was drugged before he was stabbed."
"We'll need to wait for the CID on that. Anyway, there's another thing you should see."

She took out a battered photograph from her case. It showed four men dressed in the collars, wigs, and black robes of barristers. One of them was recognizable Arthur Knight.

"But who are the others?" he asked.
"Their names are written on the back."

He turned it over and read the names:

"City of London vs. J. Finnigan, et al.
London team:
-His Grace, Benedict Fairfield, QC, Duke of Fairfield
-Mr. Arun Singh, Esq.
-Mr. Arthur Knight, Esq.
-Mr. Jonathan Warburton, Esq. "

"So these are the city barristers," said John.
"Yes, and we need to locate them," Louisa replied, "at least two of them."
"Why two?"
"I checked the records of the Bar Council, and this Jonathan Warburton died after accepting the case."
"How did he die?"
"He was crushed by an omnibus, in something which appeared to be an accident."
"When did he die?"
"A week ago."
"Did you check the office addresses of the Duke of Fairfield and Mr. Singh."
"Yes. The Duke has his office at Savile Row, and Mr. Singh is his partner."

She gave him a piece of notepaper upon which was written an address, then said:

"Uncle, I think I've noticed something in these deaths."
"What?"
"The deceased men were both barristers, and they were on the same case."
"Anyone can die, even barristers,"
"Yes, but why them in particular? Coincidence?"
"Louisa, there is no such thing as coincidence. To say so would be to suggest the non-existence of God."
"So what other options do we have?"
He thought about it for a while.
"Either that they are connected, or just isolated incidents."
"And who perpetrated them?"
"That is what must be discovered."