THE STRANGE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING LORD

Even by July’s standards, it was hot. The air was thick and clammy and clung like an unwanted overcoat. In these conditions, the metropolis was not the place to be. Tempers boiled over and punches were thrown, but members of the constabulary had little or no energy to for blowing their whistles, writing in notebooks or wrestling with miscreants. A general air of low-level lawlessness prevailed, but it would take a break in the weather for the situation to improve.

Mr Dalston Kingsland of Rochester Mansions, Belgravia sweated in his stiff collar and prayed for some business that would call him away to the countryside; for a few days at least, long enough to clear the grime from his pores and revive his withering spirits. He sat down to a tray of tea, toast and marmalade and sorted the day’s post in descending order of promise as was his habit

‘That will be all, Mrs Richmond,’ nodded the detective, looking over his reading glasses at the plump housekeeper, with the letter opener poised to make its first expert incision.

‘Will you be dining here tonight, sir?’ asked Mrs Richmond as she pulled the door behind herself.

‘No, I’ll be taking supper at the club.’ When he wasn’t working on a case, Kingsland invariably dined out, in the hope that some matter of interest would bring itself to his attention. His hopes on this score were rarely fulfilled; indeed he considered most of his fellow club members to be ‘narrow-minded bores’ in spite of the fact that they occupied some of most elevated positions in society – Members of Parliament, judges, surgeons and senior police officers.

Kingsland began to open his letters. As usual, there were expressions of gratitude for jewels recovered, mysteries solved and fraudsters unmasked which he sorted into one pile that he used as references. Another pile consisted of invitations to speak at this or that academy or society on some aspect of criminal investigation or detective work. There was only one personal letter, from his mother, telling him how hot it was. His powers of deduction had certainly not come from her side of the family. Kingsland paused before opening the final envelope. His name and address were clearly written in the hand of a woman, but the cursive script tailed off at the end of each line suggesting that the letter has been dashed off in somewhat of a hurry.

Before slicing open the lilac envelope, Kingsland lit his pipe and took a good, long puff then put it aside. His fingertips tingled as he twiddled the letter opener between his thumb and index finger, then he plunged in.

 

Three hours later, Kingsland was standing on the concourse of Waterloo Station with a ticket for deepest Hampshire in his pocket. With seconds to spare, his long legs stepped lightly onto the 11:40 stopper to Southampton and he took his seat in first-class. Kingsland paid no attention to the changing landscape outside his window as the greys of the city transformed into the greens of the countryside; his mind was focussed on the task in hand, solving the case of the strange disappearance of Lord Kilburn.

 

‘I’m so glad you could come, Mr Kingsland,’ gushed Lady Kilburn. ‘I was worried you’d be deep undercover working on some case vital to our national security.’

            ‘Well, usually …’

            ‘You’re here, anyway. Do you know Harold?’

            ‘Only by reputation, your ladyship.’ That reputation was as a notorious player of the roulette tables of Europe.

            ‘Call me Elizabeth, Mr Kingsland. I’ll never get used to this “ladyship” business. My own origins are quite humble, as you probably know.’ She blushed. Kingsland was well aware that Lizzie Acton had been a dancer who’d captured the eye and the heart of the young Harold Kilburn. It was a surprise to the society columns that the relationship had led to marriage, but the marriage had lasted some eighteen years so far, outlasting the unions of many of the sceptics.

            ‘Would you mind if I freshened up first, and then you can fill me in on the details of your husband’s recent movements?’

            ‘Of course,’ said the lady delicately pulling a nearby cord for service. ‘I’ll show you to your room. Even in this house, it’s been hard to find a room immune from the sun’s cruel rays of late. I’ve been bathing in the lake to cool down every afternoon.’ She bowed her head, and departed the drawing room with a graceful sweep.

 

Refreshed and cleansed by a tepid bath, Kingsland perched on the end of his bed and went through the ritual of lighting his pipe. A vast bay window looked out over the extensive grounds of one of England’s finest stately homes; there were avenues of cypress and poplar, ornamental ponds, areas of wilderness and, in the distance, a lake surrounded by willows. Kingsland could see that the gardens were suffering in the heat, the lawns yellowing, the leaves of many trees prematurely brown. For all its lifelessness, Kingsland found the view across Hampshire infinitely preferable to that of dusty Belgravia.

 

Kingsland took his place at the dinner table opposite Lady Kilburn, immaculate in a full-length dress of turquoise with her jet black hair in loose ringlets falling over her elegant shoulders topped off by an antique tiara.

‘Will His Lordship be joining us?’ Kingsland asked pointedly, scrutinising the face opposite for any sign of weakness.

‘Whatever can you mean, Mr Kingsland?’ Once again she was blushing. ‘That’s why you’re here, Mr Kingsland … to find Harold.’

‘In that task, I believe I have succeeded.’ Kingsland grabbed the wrist of the servant topping up his glass of claret. ‘Sit down next to me, Lord Kilburn, and explain why you have dragged me away from London on this fool’s errand. You can take off those spectacles too. There is no curvature to the lens so you will find them quite useless.’

‘When did you first suspect, Kingsland?’ asked the erstwhile waiter, flopping into a vacant chair next to the sleuth.

‘You picked me up from the station earlier in the garb of a coachman. Although your handling of the team was quite excellent, your odour was not that of a man who habitually keeps the company of horses.’

‘Remarkable.’

‘So, why have you brought me here, and where are the real servants? I’ll wager a pipeful of best Virginian tobacco that the answers to these two questions are related.’

‘Indeed, Mr Kingsland.  We – my dear wife and I - feared that you would not come to Hampshire if the real reason for our summons was known to you. All our servants have abandoned the estate and left us to our own devices because of the ghost.’

‘I hold no truck with the supernatural, your lordship. If there is mischief afoot, then the culprit resides in the world of flesh, not that of the spirit.’

‘So, you will help rid us of our ghost, Mr Kingsland?’ asked the lady hopefully, reaching out her slender hand to hold her husband’s. The detective made no instant reply. If word got around London that the great Dalston Kingsland had turned ghost hunter, his reputation might never recover. On the other hand, he could stroll around the gardens here, free from the nuisance of footpads and beggars and take shade from the oppressive sun in the leafy avenues. Eventually, the detective replied.

‘What form does this ghost take? Have either of you seen it yourselves?’ The couple looked at each other as if deciding who should speak.

‘A blinding white light and a strange noise.’ It was the lady who spoke. ‘I have seen and heard it twice. On both occasions, it came upon the house in the dead of night.’

‘I have only witnessed the phenomenon once’ added the gentleman. ‘I believe it is the ghost of my grandfather, who was killed in a duel down by the lake. His pistol had been tampered with.’

 

Kingsland could not sleep; even here in the countryside, the humidity was unbearable. At some time in the early hours, he dressed and made his way down to the lake. The moon was almost full. Bending down on the bank of the lake, he observed what appeared to be scorch marks. Suddenly, a light appeared next to the moon, nearer but brighter. It grew in intensity and proximity until Kingsland found himself being drawn upwards into the belly of some craft that hovered above. Overwhelmed by the light, the sensation and the fear, Kingsland passed out briefly but was aware of a metal door swishing shut behind him.

 

As he came to his senses, Kingsland became aware of silver-suited creatures busying themselves on various instrument panels. Through a porthole he could see Hampshire, England, Europe disappear into the distance, yet he had no feeling of motion. One of the creatures approached him and spoke in English.

‘Do you have any idea what this is?’ it intoned, showing him a metal rod about eighteen inches in length.

‘An anal probe?’ Kingsland prepared for the worst. The creature flicked a button and a small flame appeared at the end of the rod.

‘Happy birthday, old man,’ said the creature and a large cake was brought forward with its candles unlit.

‘You sly old dog,’ laughed Kingsland, as the creature revealed himself to be Dr Camden, Kingsland’s oldest friend and occasional assistant. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere cool,’ replied the doctor.