Free The Detective and the Devil by Lloyd Shepherd

ignored by him and by his colleagues. His eyes glittered in the light from the candle on his desk, and Horton noted how amused and intelligent those eyes seemed. There were
precious few other signs of life in the room.
    ‘To your work, Lamb,’ said Putnam, and the clerk looked at him with a wider smile on his face, like a boy baiting an angry dog behind a fence.
    ‘Certainly, Puh-Puh-Putnam,’ he said. ‘I shall not stand ah-ah-ah-accused of interrupting any investigation involving the fa-fa-fa-fate of my poor friend Johnson.’ And
with that the clerk turned back to his work, though not without the suspicion of a wink towards Horton.
    ‘If you please, constable,’ said Putnam. He led Horton to an empty desk, one of a pair – all the desks were arranged in twos. The unoccupied stool stood out like a ship without
a mast.
    The clerk sitting at the adjacent desk looked up expectantly as Horton and his chaperone approached, as if he were waiting for them. The desk itself was empty – no papers, no quill, and
when Horton opened the lid there was nothing in the space within.
    ‘Is this usual?’ he asked.
    ‘Is what usual?’ replied Putnam.
    ‘For the desk to be empty.’
    ‘All the desks are emptied each night by myself,’ Putnam said. ‘The papers are locked in the safe.’
    ‘So you read everything the clerks are working on?’
    ‘By no means. There would not be sufficient hours in the day. I have a broad idea of what areas are being covered, that is all. Occasionally I will look in greater detail. If I am asked to
by a superior.’
    ‘So what was Johnson working on?’
    ‘He and Baker here dealt with correspondence from the Company’s Atlantic territories: St Helena and Tristan da Cunha. Also correspondence relating to activities on the western coasts
of Africa.’
    ‘But only matters relating to the private trade of Company officers?’
    ‘The Company’s formal dealings with the Atlantic territories are somewhat smaller than with its main holdings in India, constable. We tend to cover other areas as well, as they are
too small to be dealt with by other offices.’
    ‘What other areas might those be?’
    ‘Stores and provisions, mainly. These territories depend on the Company for the materials of life. They are not self-sufficient in the way India is.’
    Horton turned to the man sitting next to Johnson’s desk.
    ‘Baker?’
    ‘Yes, constable.’ The man was young and earnest, with a trace of Cockney about his accent, though it had been carefully smoothed down.
    ‘You knew Johnson?’
    ‘Yes, constable.’
    ‘Did you communicate with him?’
    ‘Not all that much, constable. Kept himself to himself. A fine fellow, but a shy one.’
    ‘And you both worked on St Helena matters?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I have a cousin who is a planter there. Just outside Georgetown.’
    ‘Do you?’
    Baker smiled.
    ‘I do not recall there being a place named Georgetown on St Helena,’ said Putnam, coldly. Baker looked at him and then looked back to Horton, who did not see the point of asking any
further questions of this particular clerk.
    ‘Putnam, may I speak to you privately?’
    ‘Is there nothing else you wish to ask Baker?’ He smiled as he said this.
    ‘No. Nothing.’
    ‘Then let us retire to my desk.’
    ‘There is nowhere more private?’
    Putnam looked at the clerks.
    ‘You can assume that these men are devoid of hearing for the purposes of this visit,’ he said. None of the clerks lifted their heads – even the stuttering wit kept his eyes on
his work. Baker had turned his eyes down to his own desk. He picked up a quill, and looked in vain for an inkpot that wasn’t there.
    Putnam went to sit at his desk, a lower affair situated at the end of the room. He folded into the chair as if there were hinges at his waist and back, and indicated a chair for Horton to sit
in. Horton felt like a parent of a misbehaving schoolboy who was behind on his fees.
    ‘I understand Johnson was recently