Free The Gold Masters by Norman Russell Page A

to Finchley to consult her, whenever he wanted a female slant on some aspect of a case.
    The door opened, and little Ethel, as neat as ever in cap and apron, stepped out into the front garden. She put a finger to her lips, and setting convention aside, drew Box by the sleeve into the shade of one of the laurel bushes flanking the path.
    ‘Oh, Mr Box,’ she whispered, ‘Missus has got a young gentleman with her this morning. Do you still want to come in? Or will you leave your card?’
    ‘A young gentleman?’ asked Box truculently. ‘What kind of a young gentleman? What are you talking about, Ethel?’
    He was conscious of how ridiculous his jealous resentment must have sounded to the 14-year-old girl who was still clutching his sleeve, and viewing him with an infuriating air of compassion. Ethel giggled.
    ‘You’d better come in, Mr Box,’ she said. ‘This young gentleman is another scholar, come to talk about books and suchlike. They’re having morning coffee and biscuits in the study, so I’ll fetch another cup. Mr James, he’s called, this young gentleman. Mr M.R. James, it said on his card.’
    Box followed the little maid into the house, where he was conducted without ceremony to Louise Whittaker’s study, which occupied the spacious front room of the house. Serenely beautiful as ever, the lady of the house rose to greet him. She had beensitting at the round tea table near the fireplace, upon which stood a silver tray bearing a tall coffee pot, cream jug, sugar bowl, and two china cups and saucers.
    ‘Why, Mr Box!’ cried Louise. ‘How kind of you to call.’ Her voice, amused, musical and educated, carried its own subtle authority. She fixed Box with what seemed to be a limpidly innocent smile, a technique of hers that never failed to make him feel awkward and foolish.
    ‘May I introduce Mr M.R. James, of King’s College, Cambridge?’ she said. ‘Mr James, this is my friend Detective Inspector Box, of Scotland Yard.’
    A fair-haired young man in a dark suit half rose from a chair by way of greeting, and there was something nervously awkward about the gesture that told Box that he was not in the presence of a rival for Miss Louise Whittaker’s affections.
    ‘Box?’ said James. Are you the Inspector Box? The man who exposed that confounded rogue Gideon Raikes, and solved the 25-year-old murder of Henry Colbourne? My dear sir, I’m honoured to meet you.’
    M.R. James sprang to his feet, and shook Box heartily by the hand. At that moment Ethel entered the room bearing an extra cup and saucer, which she placed on the table. She contrived to ignore Box, as though she had never seen him before in her life.
    ‘Sit down, Mr Box,’ said Louise, ‘and I’ll pour you some coffee. What dramatic police business brings you out to Finchley?’
    ‘I’m engaged on an investigation that’s taking me into the murky realms of spiritualism, Miss Whittaker,’ Box replied. ‘I don’t mean the usual knavish tricks, like spirit writing, or table turning. They’re all in a day’s work, so to speak. And spirit photography, likewise – all those little faces cut out from magazines , and stuck on cotton wool. I could do those myself.’
    ‘This is something more serious, isn’t it, Mr Box?’ asked Louise, setting his coffee cup beside him, ‘Something sinister, I shouldn’t wonder.’
    ‘It is, Miss Whittaker. The medium I’m investigating has produced the spirit of a dead child, who spoke to her father in such a way that he was convinced that the manifestation was real. I was there myself, and witnessed it. The father has since attended a second seance, and once again the child appeared, and spoke to him through the medium. He sent me a note to tell me all about it. What I want to know, is whether such things are possible.’
    All three were suddenly quiet, as though some unseen presence had joined them. A horse and cart trundled slowly along the road, the sound of hoofs muffled by the heavy velvet