Basham's Theory

Basham’s Theory

By Troy Seate

Some men look toward retirement like a capsized sailor might look at a spit of land on the horizon, but Edgar Basham hadn’t been one of them. He missed the intrigue of the pursuit. He had cultivated a slight paunch, but retained the eyes of a cunning investigator above his salt-more-than-pepper mustache. He maintained his theory that, although God remained an unsubstantiated hypothesis, good and evil most definitely existed. He believed all individuals fell, to a greater or lesser degree, on a continuum. On one end of human endeavor’s umbilicus was genius, those men and women who brought light into the world. On the other end, pure evil resided, pre-ordained to do mankind’s darkest work. For every peacemaker and poet, there was a merciless predator not only waiting, but anxious to commit a miasma of misdeeds.

Basham’s village was still recovering from a recent slaying. One of its own, a young lad who’d left for college in London, had been murdered on the streets just beyond the safety of the university’s hallowed halls. This news served to validate Basham’s theory. A phantom, with his tentacles of merciless compulsion, had brought an end to the student’s hopes and aspirations. Further, the craven killer had buggered several lads before killing them, and was caught only when one of his planned victims turned out to be a policeman in disguise who’d managed to get the upper hand.

He stood at a window peering through the gloom of the English night, his life of more than thirty years with Scotland Yard still singing a siren’s lullaby. On these occasions, Basham wished he was still in the service of Her Majesty, so he couldn’t ignore the intriguing coincidence of a message arriving from his old friend, Detective Atchison, asking him to travel back to London. Fighting the demon of arthritis, he eased himself into his favorite chair with a brace of brandy, barely able to contain the excitement the letter initiated.

***

Upon arrival in London, Basham felt as lost as a passenger in a drifting vessel. The city had grown since he’d departed. It teamed with more people scurrying about than ever, so different from the village he now called home, but the quick pace supplied a rush of adrenalin not felt in the idyllic countryside. Atchison had invited Basham to give his opinion about a current case.

“What in heaven’s name do you do to keep yourself busy these days, Inspector?”

“Just because one lives in a small village doesn’t mean he has no interest in books, music, and art. I have plenty of time to fill.

“I remember how you reasoned out the case in which a wife put a prostitute up to killing her husband,” Atchison reflected. “I’m in charge of a case involving another prominent citizen taken down on the very street where he lived.” The detective hesitated for effect. “The victim, Inspector, is none other than the notorious Mr. Ambrose Pippin, the man you once saved from a knife in Whitechapel.”

Basham’s forehead wrinkled.

“By jove, Basham, you’ve still got the bloodhound in you. I felt sure you would appreciate this development.”

“It is intriguing. Surely Mrs. Pippin is suspected?””

“We’ve interviewed Charlotte. She’s a slight little thing, easily intimidated. Can’t imagine her orchestrating her husband’s murder. She was inside the residence while the murder occurred on the street outside. Unless we uncover someone with a motive for harming Mr. Pippin, it might be a murder perfectly executed.”

Executed. The optimum word. “There is never perfection,” Basham grumbled. “Maybe a debt to be settled.”

Atchison’s eyebrows rose. “A direct connection to your old case?”

Basham fingered one end of his mustache. “Possibly.”    

“Your nose was always good at sniffing out the rotten apple. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like and I’ll see that you receive a consultant fee.”

Atchison knew Basham wouldn’t refuse. The convoluted case of the first dead husband and nearly a second had run parallel to the highly publicized Ripper murders and it still haunted Basham. Although Ambrose Pippin, had been spared, he’d suspected Charlotte to have been in league with the wife who’d coerced the prostitute to carry out moral vengeance for their husbands’ dalliances. The case had, in fact, hastened his retirement.

“Let me see the police reports,” Basham said.

***

The following day, he was provided notes taken by Atchison and canvassing policemen. It was a queer affair to be sure. On a foggy evening in front of his own dwelling, Pippin was attacked with a knife. The only clue was the smudge of an unknown man’s boot print. From within the flat, Charlotte Pippin heard nothing but a disconcerting bump on the outside of their door. Such a vicious crime in the well-tended neighborhood was unusual. Basham thought back to the murder six years earlier. Pippin had escaped death once before, but not this time.

Basham instinctively knew the earlier murder was related to Pippin’s death. The connection just needed to be reasoned out. Was there some unknown person who wanted additional revenge for Pippin’s part in the aforementioned drama of deceit and infidelity? The exquisite pathos of contradiction. How ironic that the remnants of the case hastening Basham’s retirement had lured him back to London.

Only two nights following the stabbing of husband number one, the same woman attacked Pippin. Basham remembered something she uttered upon capture outside Madam Frazzeta’s house of comfort. “Better to ask for reason from his wife rather than the likes of me, Luv.”

The machinery of justice could be agonizingly slow, but so too could the proper circumstance for revenge. Six years later, Londoners still talked about the notorious Jack, but long forgotten was case of two philandering husbands. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned; one of Basham’s favorite epitaphs. He knew Mrs. Pippin hadn’t committed the recent crime herself. The question was where a proper lady might have come across a scoundrel who would do the job for her.

While Atchison snooped around in the rat’s nest of streets that proliferated in the seamier London districts such as Whitechapel, Basham decided to take a more active role than merely looking at reports. On the day of Pippin’s burial, he watched as mourners paid their respects to the bereaved Charlotte. He counted the number of persons entering the flat, and counted the number who left. One gentleman lingered. Basham envisioned him to somehow be involved in Ambrose’s demise, but if his widow were involved, she’d be too smart to entertain a conspirator. Her husband’s former companion had been killed for seeking adulterous pleasure in Whitechapel’s brothels. Basham decided to revisit Madame Frazzeta’s establishment.

To Basham’s eye, the brothel reflected added years of wear and tear, much like the buxom woman who still operated the place. In large cities, people often found themselves in a dazed, thoughtless life, losing their purpose and their virtue, forced into one form of slavery or another with no one to save them from the darkness. It seemed especially true of the women who plied their hopeless trade in Whitechapel. Basham made arrangements to purchase the Madame’s time to answer his questions.

“A pound is a pound whether you goose me cunny or not, Govn’r.”

In a lifetime of detection, Basham managed to keep much of his emotion deep within. Still, his demeanor proved quaintly chivalrous, adjusting himself a little straighter in his chair. “Anything about these two men, now deceased, you will share? Did they have a, ahem, favorite female or activity. That sort of thing?”

It was then that the Madame spun a curious tail. One of her chattel had disappeared around the time The Ripper began his bloodthirsty rampage. The missing prostitute, Marcia Henniker, would have undoubtedly been thrown into a pile of his possible victims if her body had been found. But Marcia merely disappeared and was never accounted for.

In the metropolises of the world, disappearances of young girls in this dubious profession was exceptionally high. Basham imagined the scene: A body carried from the brothel in the dead of night, most likely placed in a carriage, weighted down, and tossed into the Thames, not missed by anyone except her co-workers, or whatever family she might have. Could this disappearance have had something to do with Pippin and his associate given their proclivity to share the spoils of privilege? Perhaps Ambrose Pippin deserved the death Basham had thwarted back then.

 Madam Frazzeta revealed Marcia’s history but informed Basham the establishment had many wealthy customers. “You know discretion is a two-way street, Inspector,” she said, trying to end the conversation with levity, her implausibly bright red hair setting atop her head like a nightmarish bird’s nest. “No matter how old a man, we can provide him comfort.” A wink. Her laugh sounded like loose gravel in a tin cup.

“Mores the pity,” Basham responded as he turned to leave.

“Bloody arse’ole,” the woman muttered. 

Basham left the building and headed for another. Although hardened to the cruelties one person could inflict upon another, the information about the missing woman unsettled him. He felt like a child’s kite, its tether compromised, flapping wildly in a breeze. A case from six years ago had segued into a current one, but the puzzle was still missing pieces. The more intricate the maze, the more rewarding the solution, he mused.

At the Census and Tax Administration buildings, Basham determined the dead woman’s lodging prior to taking up with Frazzeta. Further investigation revealed her father to be a merchant with a sickly wife at the time of their daughter’s disappearance.

Basham moved on. Gaslights cast a thick yellow glow through the pressing fog. Disheveled, desultory children who should be at home, if they had one, ran to adjacent streets as Basham approached. It took several raps on a door before he heard the snick of a lock. A middle-aged man peeked through the opening. Basham could smell whiskey and the stench of dried sweat. Suspicious eyes stared at Basham as if unaccustomed to visitors.

“Well, what is it?”

“I’ve come to talk about your daughter, Mr. Henniker. If you’d allow me to—”

“Nothin’ to be said.”

“I’m more than happy to reimburse you for your time.” Basham pulled a leather pouch from his waistcoat pocket.

“Well, Mr.—”

“Basham.”

The man looked at him with both apprehension and skepticism, but reached for the bag of coins nonetheless. “What’s the harm now? My girl’s been gone nearly seven years. That’s a long time to suffer. Her mother suffered to the end, she did.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d lost your wife.”

“She was always sickly, but losin’ Marcia was what did her in…in her head.”

“How recently did she pass, if I may ask?”

“Just last month. Now they be together. God rest their souls.”

“Seven years of not knowing what happened—”

Mr. Henniker interrupted. “From the day she left…she’d visit now and then and leave a few quid for medicine, but the girl was already lost to that world of shame.”

“I can only imagine how difficult it must be, losing Marcia to those who take advantage—”

“Here now, what’s this really about?”

“It’s about a murdered man, Mr. Henniker. A man who may have deserved his fate, but it isn’t for us to decide.”

“Them that took my girl, if they was Christians come down from the cross, I’d nail their hides back up if I had the power.”

“Certainly.” Basham looked from the man’s face to his feet. “I notice your boots are rather unusual.”

Henniker looked down as if discovering them for the first time. “I think I’m done with answerin’ questions, Mr. Bascomb. If you’ll kindly take your fancy ways back to wherever…. Wait, you’re the bloke who saved Pippin in Whitechapel not long after Marcia disappeared. Too bad. The bloke got more time than he deserved.”

“Did you kill him, Mr. Henniker?”

“Guess you take me for a fool. You retired. Put out to pasture…”

While Henniker was talking, Basham removed a heavy sheet of paper from his valise. On the page was the imprint of the boot copied from the one found at the threshold of Mr. Pippin’s residence. “Would you mind if I compare this print to the sole of your shoe?”

The man’s eyes grew large. Basham wasn’t sure if he was about to break down in tears, or become combative. He proved the latter. The orbs changed from surprise to slits of anger, a cornered man about to launch his rage. He grabbed hold of Basham’s lapels and threw him from the porch onto the rough cobblestones. The vengeful father, from the sanctuary of his home that perhaps held all that remained of his life, attacked Basham with extreme prejudice. He pulled a knife from the back of his belt, looming over the fallen man, his eyes fiercely cold, his face roiling with defiance. “You should have minded your own business.”

The knife glinted in his hand like a silver tooth. It had a scrimshaw handle. Funny, the details one notices at perilous moments, Basham thought. Although surprised by the sudden assault, his faculties were intact enough to raise one arthritic knee and launch a swift kick to his attacker’s groin. Henniker stumbled back for a moment, only temporarily put off.

He loomed over Basham again and grinned victoriously. “An old curmudgeon like yourself, shouldn’t trifle with the likes of me.” He raised the knife. 

The next thing Basham saw was the flash of a lacquered club swinging through space. It crashed into the side of Henniker’s head. The knife flew from his hand, but the blow didn’t bring him down. He listed to one side.

Standing defiantly behind the assailant was a Bobbie, his arm raised to inflict a second blow. When Henniker moved to recapture his weapon, the officer brought him down with a second swing of his nightstick.

Basham staggered to his feet, embarrassed that he’d been overwhelmed even if he was approaching his seventh decade. Detective Atchison was standing nearby as the Bobbie handcuffed Mr. Henniker.

“My dear inspector,” the detective said. “There are very few people on this earth that I have even a limited tolerance for. Fortunately, you are one of them. Once the old war horse started to roam, we began keeping an eye on you. Too busy snooping to notice, I suppose. Lucky for you.”

Basham looked into the detective’s implacable eyes. “You may be right, Atchison. But where would you be without my wanderlust, still scratching one’s hindquarters at headquarters more than likely.”

Atchison’s stiff upper lip melted into a half-smile. “We’re still quite a team, I’d say.”

Henniker moaned unintelligibly. The three men looked down at the perpetrator who had waited a long time to exact his revenge on Ambrose Pippin, a man who may or may not have been complicit in the disappearance of his daughter. This simple man had taken the law into his own hands, an otherwise normal citizen, reaching his tipping point. Little old ladies and little old men occasionally did away with their spouses after years of supposed harmony. Meek bank clerks suddenly embezzled funds, and personalities could completely alter within the confines of a neighborhood pub. Humans were seldom rational and, although many of their acts were spontaneous, Basham’s theory of alpha and omega personalities held. He guessed the man had waited for his wife to die in case he didn’t get away with the crime. It had been a wise choice.

Mr. Henniker had lost his child at the hands of someone who felt entitlement. If Basham had been a father, he might have acted in a similar manner. The law was the law, however, and Henniker would do best to plead guilty with extenuating circumstances and hope for leniency.

“The tale entire,” Basham murmured.

Detective Atchison looked at the aging ex-compatriot. “You ought to write a text, Inspector. All the cases you’ve brought to conclusion, including your adventures after leaving The Yard.”

Basham harrumphed. “Too many unsolved cases to flap one’s wings over. I’d rather keep my interpretations to myself.”

***

Basham departed the city once more leaving behind a case devoid of a happy ending. Although no misogynist, he did question why he was so quick to suspect Pippin’s wife of being behind the murder. Perhaps he’d merely read Macbeth too many times. An unwritten law in murder cases was to look at family members first. This case had verified that edict, but the missing puzzle piece lay with a missing woman’s family rather than that of Pippin’s.

It was back to the countryside after another exposure to the corruption that large melting pots could breed. He’d been reminded of the old axiom that one could never take life for granted, however secure you might believe yourself to be. Whenever he thought about the excitement involving foot-to-crotch combat with Mr. Henniker, he couldn’t suppress a slight smile, mostly hidden beneath his bristly mustache.