The Darke Chronicles by David Stuart Davies Page A

to Darke to become his friend. He was too enigmatic, too self-possessed, too complicated to give himself to straightforward friendship. There was Carla, of course, his lover, but she in her own way was just as mysterious and enigmatic as Darke himself.
    Luther Darke was the son of a duke but, because of his undisciplined and outrageous behaviour, he had become estranged from his widowed father at an early age. He had been a rebel and hated the arrogance and pomposity of the aristocracy. Although Darke had inherited a considerable amount of money on his father’s death, he had passed over the title and the family home to his younger brother, of whom he saw little. Ducal respectability and responsibility were abhorrent to him. He now occupied most of his time in being an artist – a portrait painter – and was gaining a growing reputation for his work. But even here, his energies were erratic. On a whim he would drop his brush halfway through a painting in order to follow up one of his other passions, which were very varied and eclectic. He had a fascination for the unexplained and the unknown. He took a great interest in the work of spiritualist mediums and unsolved crimes. It was his offer of assistance in the Carmichael mystery, when Foreign Office official Ralph Carmichael, his wife and two children – along with their pet spaniel – apparently disappeared into thin air that had broughtInspector Thornton into contact with this unique individual for the first time. Darke helped to solve the case and Thornton had sought his assistance several times since. However, after the Baranokov affair, over which they had disagreed violently, there had been a rift in their relationship. Thornton was well aware that it was he who, suffering from the humiliation of being proved wrong, had turned his back on his strange associate. But here he was again, seeking Darke’s assistance and hoping earnestly that it would be offered.
    Luther Darke took another gulp of whisky. ‘Ah, we see the world from different hilltops, you and I, Edward. You are the professional, scientific detective with a demand for rationality and feasibility; whereas I am the amateur, an artist, doomed to view things from a different angle and able to see shifting and often unusual perspectives. We are two halves of the perfect whole.’ He grinned at his own conceit and his eyes glittered mischievously. He had a broad, mobile saturnine face that possessed a wide, fleshy mouth. Dark, expressive eyebrows topped a pair of soft brown eyes that radiated warmth. His head was framed by a mane of luxurious hazel-coloured hair. He would have been handsome, but the crooked nose, broken in one of the many fights he had at school, robbed him of the classical symmetry of male beauty. He was not handsome then, but he had a magnetic presence that compelled one to watch his face with fascination as Thornton did. Every conversation was a performance. It was as though he was acting out his life.
    ‘So, enough teasing. The Curzon Street murder? Am I right?’
    Thornton nodded. ‘I am not happy about it.’
    ‘From what I have read in the papers, the case seems a straightforward one.’ Darke placed his whisky glass on the table by his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘Let me see. Shipping magnate Laurence Wilberforce is murdered at his Curzon Street mansion – stabbed – and one of the guests in his house at the time was a certain Richard Armstrong, who owed the magnate a considerable amount ofmoney that he could not repay. To make matters worse, I believe that blood was found smeared on the wretched fellow’s overcoat. Have I caught the essence of the matter?’
    Thornton gave a thin smile. ‘You knew I’d come to you.’
    Darke’s eyes twinkled with humour. ‘Indeed, I did. I was sure my worthy Thornton would not be taken in by such a simplistic solution. No doubt your superiors are quite content with Armstrong’s arrest and cannot wait to see him dangling at the end of