Page 4 of Infernal Vices

“Come.” The door opened and Atkins popped his head around. He still had his helmet on and the sight amused me a little. “I’ll need to take down the full particulars and inspect the scene of the crime before Detective Inspector Dancer arrives, sir.”

My moment of amusement melted away. I rose from my chair. “Of course. My silver cabinet is in the parlour,” I said as I strode past the officer and continued across the hall. I had not yet viewed the mess because I did not want the damage of my cabinet to distract me from the tangle of untruths I’d put in motion.

As I entered the parlour I saw that the heavy plum silk damask drapes for the window facing Bedford Square were still closed, yet the drapes for the rear window that gave a view of the garden were open, as was the sash window. An icy January breeze rushed in with the rays of morning sunlight, making me shiver to my bones. I immediately walked toward the window with the intention of closing it.

“Please don’t touch nuffin’ sir. Detective Inspector Dancer’s very strict about ensuring all remains as found.” I was not happy about being told what to do in my own home. I pivoted and scanned the room. My eyes affixed on the right corner of the room where my silver cabinet was in disarray. Fury boiled my blood. The elegant dark mahogany cabinet stood on exquisite turned and reeded legs. The bow fronted doors were arch topped with astragal glazing, either side of which stood carved columns with capitals. The interior back was lined in red raw silk and the shelves themselves were plate glass. This cabinet was the first large item of furniture I had purchased for myself when I began as an auctioneer and so it held great sentimental value. Both doors of the bow fronted cabinet were now open and I could see immediately that the lock had undergone considerable violence to enable access. A small sharp pointed kitchen knife lay on the floor beside the cabinet. The glass windows were, to my relief, unbroken. But the damage to the lock and rosewood marquetry inlay surrounding it infuriated me. I would need to employ a master locksmith and an artisan carpenter to restore the cabinet to its former glory.

I took a step closer to the sullied cabinet and saw how my once regimentally displayed collection was in a shambles. I wished that on this one occasion, my servants had not been so efficient with their task of dusting. Dust patterns on the glass shelves would have given me an idea as to which items were absent. Of course, I knew at first glance that Euan had stolen the smaller items of the collection—the Vesta cases, stamp boxes, snuff boxes, card cases. These could be pocketed and not weigh him down. With a gasp of disgust I realized that the exquisite silver fish shaped spice box that I’d purchased from Lawrence Blake was missing. My innards coiled at seeing the decimation of a collection that had taken me over twenty years to create. Nerves gnawed at my stomach and with the anger bubbling under my skin I could feel a headache coming on. My fingers rose to massage my temples.

“Are there many items missing Mr. Hannan?” the constable enquired.

“Yes,” I said testily. “It appears the thief stole the smaller items. But do not make the mistake of equating size with worth, constable,” I said tartly. “Several of the items were made by famous artisan silversmiths and they are priceless,” I explained a sharp, morose tone to my voice.

“I understand, sir.” The constable scribbled in his notebook as he spoke. “What, may I ask, is the source of your income, sir?”

“I beg your pardon!” I exclaimed disgusted by the impertinent question. Atkins flinched at my tone.

“I meant no h-offence sir, just taking down the particulars.”

“I am a man of business, an auctioneer of fine art and furniture. I own Hannan’s, an auction house in Fitzrovia,” I spat but before I could continue the sound of the doorbell gave me pause.

Mr. Wilkins entered the parlour a minute later with a suited gentleman, and a uniformed officer.

“Ah! Detective Inspector Dancer!” Constable Atkins announced excitedly.

Detective Inspector Dancer removed his bowler hat and greatcoat and as if he were master of the house passed them to Wilkins without even sharing eye contact. “Atkins is it?” The tall, brawny newcomer had well-groomed mutton chops and a pomaded head of dark brown hair. His accent was peculiar, cultured with a hint of Yorkshire to it. It sounded a tad familiar but I could not place the fellow. Didn’t Atkins say Dancer’s father was a Duke in the North of England? Did this lordly member of the Metropolitan Police attend my club?

“Yes sir,” Atkins said standing tall and puffing out his chest. He spoke on with a stilted faux official tone. “Sir, Detective Inspector Dancer sir…This is Mr. Benedict Hannan, Sir. Mr. Hannan is the victim of a heinous robbery by the Dandy Rogue, sir.”

Dancer pinched the bridge of his nose, shook his head, and let out a sigh, “Constable Atkins,” Dancer said resignedly, “How long have you been on the job?

“Six weeks, sir,”

“Then you should bloody well know by now that it isn’t your place to come to conclusions about a crime or the perpetrator. I am the DI on this case and I will deduce who this cracksman is! Do you understand?” he roared.

“Yes, sir, sorry sir,” Atkins fumbled. The lad’s cheeks were beetroot red and I felt rather sorry for him. The second constable who had entered with Dancer stood behind him, regimentally straight backed, and he smirked while the young recruit got a humiliating dressing-down.

“You’d do well to remember your place. Now, do your job to and help assemble the facts of this case.”

“Yes sir, sorry sir,” Atkins simpered as he stared at his polished boots.

“Facts…tell me the facts that you have ascertained about what occurred here?” Constable Atkins flinched and looked deeply embarrassed. He flicked through his notebook and said,

“Um. Detective Inspector Dancer, sir…I have h-ascertained that Mr. Hannan’s valet, a Mr. Troy, discovered the thief at approximately ten minutes to seven this morning. He interrupted the thief while the blaggard made his escape through the rear window of the parlour, here—” Atkins gestured stiffly to the window “—it leads directly to the back garden through which he made his h-escape.” Dancer held his hand up to halt the stilted telling. He took a tour of the parlour and then nodded, permitting the officer to continue. The other constable remained by the door, ever watchful.

“Mr. Troy discovered that the silver cabinet had been stripped of a considerable number of items. Mr. Hannan informed me that his business is as an auctioneer in Fitzrovia. He said that his insurance agent keeps a book of photographs of the contents of the cabinet.” Atkins gestured to the damaged cabinet.

Throughout the interrogation of his constable, Detective Inspector Dancer didn’t send his gaze my way. It was as if I wasn’t in the room at all.

“Has this book of photographs been sent for?” Dancer asked.

“Yes, yes, sir. A note was sent with a runner to the insurance agent some twenty minutes ago.”

It was then that Dancer turned from perusing the cabinet and set his vulpine amber eyes on me. My blood turned to ice, and unconsciously, I took a step back.

“Hannan, is it?” Dancer strode across the room towards me with his hand outstretched. “Detective Inspector Jack Dancer,” he introduced. I stood rigidly with my hands behind my back. I shuddered at the thought of his clammy meaty paw touching my skin and so I did not offer my hand. He stood before me with a suspicious scowl upon his face and seemed to find my rejection of his hand offensive.

“I have a medical condition,” I revealed unwillingly “I do not shake hands.” He studied me for a moment as if I was the criminal and not, in fact, the victim. His eyes were that of a fox—sly and watchful of its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. I could tell from his bone structure, the haughty looks, and the superior way he held himself that he was most definitely of aristocratic stock. Fear flooded through me with the power and command of that look—a look that screamed ‘I am your better, and you’ll damn well tell me what I want to know’.