Page 1 of Copper Script
CHAPTER ONE
LONDON, AUTUMN 1924
Detective Sergeant Aaron Fowler massaged the base of his skull.It didn’t relieve the pain in his neck, because that was sitting opposite him in an expensive suit.
“Paul,” he said.“I’m sorry to hear your fiancée has broken your engagement.It’s not a police matter.”
“You aren’tlistening,” said his cousin, Mr.Paul Napier-Fox.“She didn’t break it off of her own accord.She was manipulated, and I want the fraud who did it held to account.Isn’t there a Witchcraft Act?”
“Witchcraft,” Aaron repeated.
“Oh, you know.Spiritualism.Fortune telling.Money by false pretences.”
Aaron’s work with the Criminal Investigation Division covered such things as murder, rape, burglary, gang activity, sedition, extortion, and terrorism.Spiritualists weren’t his problem, he wasn’t fond of Paul, and he’d had a long day.He couldn’t remember when he’d last had a day that wasn’t long.“It’s not a CID matter.Go to the police station if you have a complaint.”
“I can’t make a fuss about witchcraft to a pack of bobbies,” Paul objected.“I’d sound like a madman.But this fellow told a lot of damned lies about me.He took Babs’s money and span a great lot of lies and she swallowed every word.She broke off the engagement because of my character!What character, I said, and she saidMr.Wildsmith told me all about you.I’ve never met the fellow in my life!”
“What has that to do with the Witchcraft Act?”
Paul made an exasperated noise.“He claimed to know my character through magic!Surely that’s not allowed.And I tell you what, Ronnie, Mater’s on the warpath about it.She said you should do something and she’ll have a word if you don’t.”
Several thoughts jostled for pre-eminence, among them how very much Aaron detested being called Ronnie; that Mrs.Ursula Napier-Fox could usefully be employed in Special Branch to put the fear of God into the most hardened subversives; and, regrettably, that Paul might have a point.
“If this fellow claims to have magical powers,” he began, and then checked, “What exactly does he claim?”
“He said he could tell my character and intentions from my handwriting.It was a few lines about my costume for our masquerade engagement party!”
“Graphology.”
“No, I was going as Henry the Eighth.”
Aaron massaged his neck again.“Graphology is the practice of analysing handwriting.I dare say it’s a lot of rubbish, but it’s legal.”
“Slander’s not legal,” Paul said stubbornly.“Babs broke off the engagement because of this damned fellow, with Mater already planning the flowers.I worship the ground she walks on and she didn’t even let me explain!And it’s not the first time, either.”
“That you couldn’t explain yourself?”
Paul glared.“That this fraud has put the cat among the pigeons.I heard he was behind Letty Villiers giving poor old George Pursthwaite the push.All the best girls are going to this fellow and having their heads filled with poisonous nonsense.”
Aaron had no interest in the love lives of the smart set, but this story was starting to prick at him.“What benefit is this man—Wildsmith?—getting from this?”
“Money, of course.He charges a fortune for a consultation.”
“Is it mostly female clients?”
“Well, the fair sex are gullible, Lord love ’em.”
Aaron was more concerned byvulnerable.Spiritualists and the like, a group in which he was quite prepared to include graphologists, tended to be very good at coaxing secrets out of the people who came to see them, especially since the world after the war was populated by people who were desperate to believe in something, or anything.Those drawn to visit a mystic could easily be persuaded by atmosphere and cajoling to reveal far more than they had intended, and he’d heard some nasty stories of exploitation and extortion, from which women were generally more at risk.It was hard to prove, hard to prosecute, and not his professional line, but he couldn’t feel happy to ignore it.
“A colleague of mine, Sergeant Hollis, has a bit of a line in Spiritualists,” he said.“The best thing is if you trot up to see him.King’s Cross station.”
“King’sCross?”Paul demanded, rather as if Aaron had suggested Zanzibar.“I’m not going to King’s Cross!And anyway, Mater wants you to do it.Family and all that.Discretion.Don’t want my business spread all over town any more than it is already, what with Babs can’t keep her mouth shut.I suppose it runs in the family but why women have to gabble on and on endlessly, never a pause for breath, talk talk talk and gossip gossip gossip.A man can’t hear himself think.And I’ll tell you what else—”
Aaron had already stopped listening.He had no interest in helping Paul, who had grown from a thoroughly horrible boy to a vain and self-centred man, and he was well aware of his professional obligations as laid out in the Police Handbook:An officer must not make enquiries unconnected with official duties, nor in his official capacity meddle with the private affairs of individuals.His aunt Ursula would be enraged if he refused to help, but Aaron wasn’t greatly concerned by that either; he could always unplug his telephone for a week.
He really had no reason to involve himself at all, except that this story was making his nerves prickle.
“All right, I heard you,” he said, across Paul’s ongoing monologue.“I shan’t speak to this fellow in an official capacity— Don’t argue with me, Paul, I haven’t finished.I won’t do anything officially, but I will talk to this Wildsmith purely as a private individual.I’ll go for a chat and see how the land lies, and if I think there’s anything dubious, I’ll take it to Hollis myself.That will have to do, because it’s all I’m going to do.Understood?”
