Death Haunts a Seance

By Peter Tong

The Detective Ladies help the Brentons, an elderly couple, involved in predictions at a séance given by Madame Zarkofski: a ‘valuable item’ the couple expected to find in a village The Detective Ladies help an elderly couple involved in predictions at a séance given by Madame Zarkofski: a ‘valuable item’ the couple expected to find in a village cemetery wall is not there. The Ladies decide the medium is a fraud and there was no ‘valuable item’, or one of the others at the séance got there before them. They visit the cemetery and find an empty hole in the wall and discover a male rider was seen looking there on the day before the Brentons. When quizzing the vicar they learn years ago a ruby stolen from an Indian Hindu statue was brought to the village but disappeared. While the Ladies attend another séance, they meet all the suspects. One of them, Knowles, is told he is going to die in four days. When visiting him, and accessing he is innocent of any theft, they convince him Zarkofski is a fraud and he agrees to help expose her. However, he dies at the appointed time. The Ladies believe he has been poisoned and she is arrested. They then discover an altruistic young woman from the first séance meeting, disguised as a man, took the ruby from the wall and is one her way to India to return it to the statue. Realising Madame Zarkofski is in fact innocent, the Ladies get her released – followed by having their fortunes read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Tong
• Release date: Sep 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370594948

Peter Tong

Born in Lancashire, England. Began writing at ten-years-old, inspired by school compositions and library-book reading. In those days I wrote Sci-fi stuff (never finished a book as I was always starting a new one), & in mid teens wrote a couple of satirical surreal shorts. But it was in my mid twenties after working in the Australian bush for a mining company and trekking back to the UK across Asia, that I began serious writing. My first published work was about my experiences in Japan for Blackwood's Magazine. Most of my career has been with scripts for radio & TV, screenplays, and stage plays, comedies and thrillers.I wrote and produced my first movie, the cocky little Gobsmacked! about an old bus broken down in the country and how the passengers got on with each other. A vertical learning curve that was fun right from the start. Followed by Mrs H of Baker Street, the stage farce about Sherlock Holmes’ landlady secretly doing her own detective work. Another joyful experience not to be missed.A few years ago I began writing novels (all out as ebooks) starting with the WWII heroic adventure series: Operation Hawkwind. Followed by the light-hearted Victorian crime series: The Detective Ladies of Baker Street, and Secret Agent 253, a WWI romantic spy story. I am currently on with an inspiring 'how to' book called: Never, Never, Never, EVER, Give Up, based on my experiences in achieving success. Next up will be an epic Sci-fi novel.My pastimes are country walking, reading, watching films and plays, enjoying jazz, rock, folk & classical concerts. I am a supporter of the David Lynch Foundation.

Book preview

Chapter One

It was mid June 1891, six weeks following the death of Mr Sherlock Holmes, the great English detective who had fallen over the Reichenbach Falls at the hands of his arch enemy, Prof Moriarty.

Six weeks during which the indispensable Mrs Hudson, his now ex-landlady, had mourned his passing. In order to alleviate her melancholy she had taken up his position as a private investigator—in a most humble manner, it must be said—to assist those who still knocked at the door of his old lodgings at 221b Baker Street mistakenly seeking his services not knowing or not wanting to believe he was dead.

But she and her trusty, if disconcerting, Cockney maid, Miss Fanny-Annie Grubbins, with her gutter vulgarity and speech, had in that sparse passage of time established a reputation as female sleuths. Much to the displeasure of all their patriarchal male acquaintances, especially the London police force.

The doorknocker of 221b would soon have to be replaced if their callers increased.

The cases they got were a mixture of the serious and the superficially silly. For instance, they had had three in the past five days. The first was from one of Mrs Hudson’s charity friends who approached her in a dreadful state over the theft of an innocent keepsake of love letters from an old childhood beau.

‘And there is this dreadful blackmail letter, my dear Mrs Hudson, from whoever stole them stating they will be returned in exchange for a pair of exclusive and expensive tickets to a grand concert at the Albert Hall, organised by Sir Gideon and Lady Oswaldtwistle as the opening event of the London Season. A most desirable affair, as I am sure you are aware.’

Mrs Hudson was aware, especially as she had never been invited to any such events in all the years she had contributed her time and energy baking pies and cakes and making socks and scarves for fund raising charity events for the Women’s League for Improvement of Social Standards, the leading light of which was Lady Oswaldtwistle herself.

She read the blackmail note and then said, ‘Please excuse my intimate questions, but a detective has to ask them in order to ascertain a full picture of a case. Are the letters of a compromising nature, Mrs Marchbank?’

‘No, certainly not, Mrs Hudson! What in heaven’s name are you insinuating?’

‘Only that the writer states if you do not comply the letters will be shown to your husband.’

‘Yes, well, George is of a jealous temperament, I have to admit, even after our twenty-seven perfectly harmonious years of a marriage. And even though the letters are an ingenuous reminder of my perfectly happy childhood, they would disturb him greatly, I know.’

Detective Hudson knew Mr Marchbank as a domineering fellow who manipulated life in order to bolster his self-centred temperament and she therefore instantly shared her client’s concerns.

‘There are two pressure points being applied here, I notice,’ she said. ‘Not only do you risk losing your cherished memories in the form of the letters, but also your marital happiness if your husband flies into such a rage that may destroy your future relationship together.’

Mrs Marchbank sobbed that this was indeed the case. It was obvious to the Baker Street lady detective that her client was not in a frame of mind to think sensibly and she would have to be gentle with her.

She then asked her a number of logical questions including whether she knew how the love letters had been stolen and when. Had she any suspicion of who the thief could be? Was she not able to obtain two tickets and simply buy off this wretched blackmailer?—although Mrs Hudson was loathed to see a villain get away with his crime. Apparently all the tickets had already been bought for the concert. Mrs Marchbank had bought two for herself and her husband and she was terrified she would not be able to give him a reason that would satisfy his volatile nature if they were not produced on the night.

‘And if he quizzed me too much I know I would break down and reveal everything!’

The letters were kept in an old music box, which had also been stolen and was itself a keepsake. It had resided amongst her other personal effects, which were stored in her bedroom chest of drawers. Nothing else was missing. She was certain the old housemaid was not the thief.

‘She has been with us nearly twenty years. I naturally questioned her and she said she could not explain why the box was missing. I would know if she were lying.’

However, they had had a weekend party recently to which a number of strangers had accompanied their invited friends, but no one suspicious. Of this, the detective was suspicious.

Mrs Hudson studied the blackmail letter closely, which was scrawled in thick black ink on cream notepaper of middle quality; the matching envelope had a central London postmark. Neither revealed anything apart from the sleuth deducing that the letter was written by a nervous right-handed gentleman. Mrs Marchbank claimed she did not recognise the handwriting.

The Baker Street detective gleaned a few more pieces of information and then led the distressed woman to the door.

‘Leave this to myself and my able assistant,’ Mrs Hudson told her. ‘We shall be in touch.’

‘There is very little time to accomplish your task, Mrs Hudson,’ was the tearful woman’s parting remark.

Chapter Two

The senior detective immediately discussed the case with her subordinate, Fanny-Annie Grubbins.

‘What kind of person is it that would go to such extremes to attend a social event no matter how high-class or even medium class it was?’

‘Not one like me, mum, an underclass who’d stick out like a policeman at a secret meeting of the Finchley Branch of the Black Hand Gang.’

‘Indeed not, Grubbins, indeed not. Therefore it must be someone respectable-looking who is desperate to climb the social ladder by any means, including acts of criminality. By rights we should interview all the guests who attended Mrs Marchbank’s weekend party. But not only will it soon be the swank gathering at Albert Hall, leaving us very little time, but if we discuss the stolen letters with them, it will inevitably reach the ears of Mrs Marchbank’s overbearing husband and put the poor lady’s future at risk.’

‘So, wot we gonna do, Mrs H, mum?’

‘Think hard, Grubbins. Think hard.’

Thinking hard was very hard for the poor gutter girl, but over the next few hours they devised a clever ruse.

‘Cor, bleeding blimey, Mrs H, this’ll be a bit o’ fun to take me mind off blooming housework, begging your pardon, mum. Though I knows it’s me job and I’d do anything for a kind-hearted, generous lady like wot you is—but I does so hate cleaning.’

Using Mrs Hudson’s cunning detective powers and Fanny-Annie’s criminal underworld contacts, forgeries were made of Mrs Marchbank’s tickets. With Fanny-Annie as the courier and dependable Joe their friendly cab driver as bodyguard, she took the fake tickets to the handover site stated in the blackmail letter and where they were exchanged for the music box of letters. The coup de grace was to mark the blackmailed tickets so that the blackmailers, a pair of obsessive social climbers, man and wife, were discreetly caught as they entered the Albert Hall by plainclothes policemen and were sent to prison for extortion.

A second case was the one were a Foolish Girl had broken off her engagement and refused to return the ring.

‘It is an expensive one I spent much of my savings on,’ the distraught fiancé told Mrs Hudson. ‘Although it now has no affection for me, I cannot afford to lose it. I will redeem my outlay by returning it to the jewellers.’

During the Detective Ladies investigations, The Foolish Girl claimed she had given it back to him. He denied this.

‘Now then,’ Mrs Hudson cautioned them separately, ‘you have to behave honestly with me and yourselves or your futures will always be lived under a cloud of deception.’

The girl then admitted she had thrown it away in a dudgeon. So finally, after much toing and froing and a small fortune in telegrams, Mrs Hudson got them back together with some fierce conversation about taking seriously ones responsibilities on the High Road of Life.

However, that was not all. Using her deductive skills, Mrs Hudson found the engagement ring—but only after a new one had been purchased. Yet the case had a satisfying conclusion when the ring was given to her as a sentimental reward.

Unfortunately…

Fanny-Annie then wore it secretly when two days later Mrs Hudson attended one of her society functions. The following morning, a very contrite assistant detective and maid-of-all-work approached her.

‘Aow lor, Mrs H, mum, here’s the sitting-room poker for you to beat me within a nosebleed of me life.’

‘What on earth are you talking about, you silly girl?’

‘I’ve gorn and lost it, mum.’

And finally, yet another case of a missing cat—making four in all—this time a Persian named Sebastopol which Fanny-Annie rescued from off the roof of an outhouse, and her showing her petticoats—and more, for all the world to see, including a humiliated Mrs Hudson and their client, the shocked Miss Tilly Lemworth.

Plus her brother, the not-so-short-sighted-after-all, lecherous Grimston Lemworth, who was not humiliated or shocked in the slightest.

After receipt of two shillings payment, the said fellow—not to be referred to as a gentleman—was chastised most severely by the senior detective and his sister, but obviously not by the exhibitionist maid who delighted in the vulgar attention.

And now came a by far more complex case for the two Detective Ladies of Baker Street who were busy in the basement kitchen.

‘Aow, lor, Mrs H, there’s the front door again. Shall I go or you, mum? Only I’m a bit of a mess with this here boot blacking stuff, so help me.’

‘If you would learn to apply it to my shoes and not your hands and face, there would be no need to ask. You could do a Music Hall turn as an African tribal dancer, lady.’ Then Mrs Hudson sighed in aggravation and continued, ‘I suppose I shall have to do it, up to my elbows in flour though I am.’

She was making two-dozen marzipan tarts, three-dozen chocolate cream fingers, and a large eel and oyster pie for the Disgusted Ladies League Against Drunken Policemen, one of the countless charities that she supported.

‘We could do a double act, Mrs H. You could pretend to be the mistress of the Empire and I could pretend to be your slave.’

‘You are my slave, Grubbins,’ said Mrs Hudson as she rolled down her sleeves and climbed the stone steps to the hallway above.

‘Garn,’ muttered the ex-dockland gutter girl, clearing her throat and spitting in the blacking jar to give it some extra body.

Upstairs, Mrs Hudson invited an elderly couple into the hallway.

‘I am Mr Emanuel Brenton and this is my wife Mary Ellen Brenton.’

Since taking up her first case within the few days following Mr Holmes’ demise, Mrs Hudson had studied more closely the ways of detecting. She knew of the Great Detective’s acute observational eye from overhearing him discussing cases with his colleague Dr Watson, and thereafter acquired more skill with her own work. She now made a number of mental connections about her new clients-to-be.

The heels of Mr Brenton’s shoes were worn beyond an acceptable social level, plus one lace had broken and had been repaired by knotting the halves together. They were shined but had a dull sheen—a mixture of soot and saliva had been used, the poor man’s polish; something her own colleague, Assistant Detective Grubbins, had passed on to her. And his collar and cuffs were frayed.

Mrs Brenton showed similar signs of poverty. Yet they held themselves upright with the dignity of a couple who were once modestly well off but now lacked a stable income. It transpired later that he had lost money in a financial collapse.

‘Yes, how may I help you?’ Mrs Hudson asked.

Mr Brenton handed over an envelope.

‘It is from our neighbour’s brother who is a police officer at Scotland Yard.’

It was of business quality and addressed to her in official looking type. The letter was of the same quality and also typewritten. The typed name followed by the signature in deep blue ink, obviously a reservoir pen, made her heart flutter.

But she took a deep