Page 1

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’t listening ,” 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 said Mr. 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 by vulnerable . 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’s Cross ?” 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?”

Paul sniffed. “I suppose it’s something.”

***

M R. JOEL WILDSMITH , Scientific Graphologist, lived in Great Percy Street, Pentonville. It was highly convenient for King’s Cross nick, or indeed a spell in prison.

Aaron had made an appointment by letter, which he’d typed, and signed with a false name. He knew how mediums and the like operated, often going to extraordinary lengths to find out information about clients, and saw no reason to make things easier.

He regarded graphology in the same light as astrology, phrenology, Spiritualism, and religion, which was to say, he accepted that their believers were sincere in their faith, and considered it none of his affair unless they attempted to foist those faiths on himself. Aaron had not grown up in a habit of placing reliance on higher powers, universal meanings, or natural justice.

He did believe in service. He’d served his nation at war, and now served its people as a police officer. He carried out his duty as best he could, to uphold the law and help redress a balance that felt permanently tilted against too many people, and that gave his life meaning.

Or, at least, it should, even if some days, the pursuit of justice felt as far-fetched as any astrological fantasy.

He shook the thought off as he approached the rather shabby boarding house at 22 Great Percy Street. A char in a smutted apron let him in without ceremony.

The narrow hallway smelled of cabbage. It wasn’t the sort of place one might think a Scientific Graphologist would live: Aaron had rather imagined either a pristine laboratory or somewhere book-lined with leather chairs.

He went up to the first floor and knocked at the indicated door. A red-headed man of medium height answered, holding a mug of tea. “Mr. Thurloe? Please come in. I’m Joel Wildsmith.”

He indicated the hatstand with the mug, rather than taking Aaron’s coat or hat. Aaron took half a second to disapprove of the poor manners before he realised Wildsmith only had one hand. The other sleeve, his left, was empty at the end.

It wasn’t unusual: London was full of men who lacked hands and arms and legs and eyes, and that was the damage you could see. It wasn’t even the most notable thing about him. That would be the moustache, which was horrible.

It was an obtrusive, bristling moustache, so absurdly over-large for his face that it made Aaron’s own face itch just to look at it, and aggressively ginger. If one could look past it, his hair gleamed copper under the gaslight; he had eyes of so light a brown they were somewhat unsettling, thick eyebrows the same shade as the moustache, and a roundish face that probably made him appear slightly younger than he was. Aaron guessed late twenties. He might have looked like a curate or a clerk if it wasn’t for the moustache; given that self-inflicted disfigurement, he looked like nothing so much as a dishonest bookie.

Aaron took his time to hang up his coat and hat, digesting his impressions as he looked around the room. It was a small bedsit, with a kitchenette consisting of a single gas ring and a sink, a bed in the corner behind a screen, a little gimcrack wardrobe, two threadbare armchairs, a small table with a single kitchen chair. The table bore a scrawled-upon notepad, a pen, and some sort of metal device with leather straps and a hook that couldn’t possibly be what it looked like. There were no pictures on the walls, no photographs, nothing personal. It was bleak.

“Have a seat. Tea?” Wildsmith asked.

Lower half of the middle class, Aaron thought. “Thank you,” he said, on the grounds that a sensible officer never refused tea.

Wildsmith managed the making of it with great efficiency, using his elbow to turn on the tap via the lever attached. He lit a match for the gas by holding the matchbox to his side with the same elbow, and striking the match with his right hand. It all looked very practiced. Aaron glanced again at the thing on the table.

“Prosthetic,” Wildsmith said from the gas ring.

Aaron hadn’t realised he’d been observed. “I beg your pardon?”

“That contraption. It’s a prosthetic. If I strap it to my arm, I can crank the hook affair tight to hold a pen or what-have-you. I can’t say it makes writing particularly easy, but here we are.”

“You’ve still got your right hand.”

“Everyone says that,” Wildsmith said. “It was the first thing the doctor told me in hospital, actually: ‘Good job it wasn’t the right, eh?’ I’m left-handed.”

Aaron had known a few cack-handers at school and in the Navy, but they rarely announced it quite so assertively; Wildsmith sounded almost belligerent. It seemed particularly forceful for a man who visibly wasn’t left-handed any more. “Ah. Rotten luck.”

Wildsmith made a noncommittal noise of response. It was a very familiar noncommittal noise to a police officer, or to anyone after the war. Yes, it is, isn’t it? Dreadful, actually. Close to unbearable. Still, mustn’t grumble!

The graphologist made the tea, added milk and no sugar on request, and brought over the mug, then reclaimed his own mug and took the other armchair. “So, Mr. Thurloe. What can I do for you?”

“That’s the question,” Aaron said. “I understand you’re a...what was it?”

“Graphologist. I read handwriting—not in the way everyone else does, I could hardly charge for that.” That was very clearly a practiced line, probably to head off the weak joke that would otherwise be inevitable. “I analyse handwriting and tell you what it reveals about the character of the writer.”

“How?”

“It’s a scientific study. I look at emphasis, angles, length of lines and shape of letters, how they connect—”

“And what does that tell you? If I put a long tail on my g s, you infer I have a short temper?”

“It’s an aggregate of impressions,” Wildsmith said. “Your writing betrays your past, your character, the mood you were in at the time. I need a page at minimum to get a sufficient feel.”

“And what do you do this for?” Aaron enquired.

“Money. It’s ten shillings per half hour.”

“I meant, what’s the purpose of your service?”

Wildsmith leaned back in his chair. “That depends on the client. Sometimes people want to know more about prospective employees, or spouses. Maybe you can’t get along with a colleague and you don’t understand why. I can give you an insight into their feelings that might help you.”

“Based on what? You say it’s a scientific study, but what’s your qualification?”

“Are you here under duress, Mr. Thurloe?” Wildsmith asked.

“I beg your pardon? No, I’m not.”

“You chose to approach me. I didn’t solicit you, and nobody is forcing you to believe in my work or use my services. You’re welcome to ask questions, but a bit less aggression, if you please.”

Aaron took a steadying breath. “Excuse me. You came highly recommended, but I can’t help feeling sceptical.”

Wildsmith tilted his head, acknowledging the words rather than accepting an apology they both knew Aaron hadn’t made. “To answer your question, there is no degree course in graphology, though there are plenty of very well-researched works on the subject. I’m self taught. My clients serve as my references, and if you think I’m entirely off target, you can always refuse to pay.”

“You allow that?”

“I can’t easily stop you,” Wildsmith pointed out. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re after? If you tell me your concerns—if you’re considering people for a job, or a lodger, or what-have-you—I’m more easily able to look for what you want.”

Or what I want to hear, Aaron thought. “I’d rather not give details about the individuals. I’ve three letters I want to you to have a look at.”

“If you prefer,” Wildsmith said indifferently, and reached out his hand. Aaron made to pull the letters out, then paused. “Wait. What about the ethics of this?”

“What ethics?”

That said it all. “You’re reading private communications for one thing. And you’re passing judgement on people you haven’t met, who haven’t consented to have you look at their hands.”

“If you think the materials ought to stay private, don’t show them to me. You chose what to bring. I do guarantee discretion, and if it’s any help, I don’t much look at the words: it’s the shape of the letters, the feel of the hand that interests me. And as for passing judgement—you’ve come here for me to do this. If you have qualms, the door is behind you.”

“You don’t have qualms?”

“I have rent.”

Blunt, not to say a touch aggressive. He had what Aaron’s father would have called front , a way of meeting the world jaw-first. Aaron had no objection to that; he found bluntness more appealing than charm. Not to mention that Wildsmith’s presentation of himself as a practical man doing a job came across as more convincing than any amount of highfaluting scientific claims.

Wildsmith probably knew that very well.

Aaron gave it a second, allowing himself to look torn, then he handed over the first paper.

Wildsmith took his time, those light brown eyes—ochre, Aaron thought might be the word—roaming over the text for several minutes. His mouth moved slightly, so far as Aaron could tell under the horrible moustache. The silence stretched. Aaron was good at silence, and very capable of sitting in a room with a suspect till their nerve broke, but he had to admit that Wildsmith was doing an excellent job of ignoring him completely.

He looked around the room again. It really was bare. His own digs weren’t precisely cosy, but he had a photograph of his sister’s wedding, and a reproduction Constable on the wall. Admittedly that had been a gift from his sister as a joke when he joined the police force, and he only hung it out of habit, but it was there.

Wildsmith looked up at last, and scrunched his face up, as if blinking something away. Aaron thought it looked affected.

“This is a very decent man,” he said. “I assume man, the hand looks extremely—”

“Man, yes.”

“He’s—what’s the word—stolid. I think he’s the sort of fellow you could tell about a problem in confidence, though I don’t know if he’d come up with any particular ideas himself to fix it because he’s not imaginative at all. Really not. Almost whatever the opposite of imaginative might be, actually.” He squinted at the paper. “I bet he’s terrifically practical in whatever he does. Probably he’s good with his hands. In personal terms, I expect he’d be a solid friend. Maybe you wouldn’t go to him for advice on your love affair, but I expect he’d buy you a pint while you talked about it. Not a romantic husband, I wouldn’t think, but a useful one. How can I put this: I bet he’s never bought his wife flowers in his life, but he’d happily dig her a rose bed if she wanted one.”

Aaron felt himself jolt, and cursed internally as those bright, light eyes caught the motion. Wildsmith gave it a second without comment, as if waiting for him to speak, then moved on. “At work, this is probably one of Nature’s NCOs. He won’t come up with brilliant new ideas that change everything, but he will make sure it runs to the best of his ability. I wouldn’t expect him to handle disagreements with any particular flair, but I doubt you’ll find him in a fight either. Insults tend to bounce off men this self-sufficient. In a word, he’s reliable.”

Aaron stared at him. Wildsmith gave a tiny shrug. “That’s my opinion.”

“Based on his handwriting. What, precisely, about the angle of his letters or the way he joins them tells you he dug his wife a rose bed?”

Wildsmith exhaled. “I’m trying to say, this is the hand of someone who does sensible, practical things, for good or ill. I’d imagine he’d propose with a ‘What about it, old girl?’ rather than sweeping her off her feet, but he would also be there in sickness and in health, like you’re supposed to. This is the hand of a reliable man.”

Aaron made himself nod slowly. “I see. How can you be sure?”