Domini Mortum

by Paul Holbrook

  I decided that it was time to continue with my hunt for information regarding the activities of Sibelius Darke’s club, which Abe Thomas was so insistent had played a larger part in his killings. I intercepted Mr Purkess as he left the offices and told him that I felt my services were not being best used in the law courts and that I would only be available for murder cases. He looked shocked but agreed in principle and told me he would speak to Cope upon his return tomorrow.

  When I next saw Cope I could tell that he did not know whether to be pleased or dismayed for, although he had plenty of other artists and writers at his disposal, it also meant that I had escaped the shackles of the prison he had created for me.

  ‘You will not get the court job back, you know!’ he said, to which I merely nodded and smiled.

  I had a small lead on the club; I had been given a name by a hansom driver associate of mine, a trusted source of information. The name he had given to me was Gerald Hopple, a former superintendent of the Dolorian Club. Hopple had disappeared from public life for three years after the fire, but had now returned to London to work as a valet to Lord Bracken in Kensington. I had written to Hopple stating that I was a nephew of a club member who had perished in the fire; I said that I was planning on writing a book in memoriam on the medical and charity works of my dear uncle and wished to discover more about his last hours. With the offer of a reward for this information, Hopple, of course, agreed and wrote that he would be pleased to meet me at the Rainbow on Fleet Street. Hopple told me that he would take a seat at one of the booths at the rear of the establishment and that I should ask for him on arrival, under the name Arthur Banks.

  Upon arriving I ordered a drink and was directed towards a dark and secluded spot away from the general hubbub of the tavern. From my view at the bar, Hopple kept his face very much in shadow, and it was only when I came close that I realised why he had wished to remain out of sight.

  ‘Mr Banks, I presume?’ I said as I approached the table, holding out my hand to him.

  He turned slowly towards me, bringing the whole of his face into the light of the gas lamp above the booth. The right side of his face was deeply etched and eroded; rough lumped and red, it wept in places, looking sore to the touch. Pink, shiny skin hung down over the place where his right eye had once been, giving the impression of a man whose face had been made of wax held too close to a great and oppressive heat. He had lost the majority of the hair on the side of his head also. He wore small, round glasses for the vision out of his one remaining eye, and there was nothing resembling an ear on the right side of his head. Where his ear had been there now remained nothing but a red, glossy lump scorched by the flames of the Dolorian Club. I found myself staring uncomfortably at him.

  He reached out a white-gloved hand to me which I shook gently as I sat down.

  ‘I apologise for the shock of my appearance, sir.’ His voice was thick-edged and raspy. ‘I never was the most handsome man in London and seem to be even less so now.’ There was a slow wheeze in his breath and I wondered just how much damage had been done to him in that terrible blaze.

  ‘There is no need to apologise, Mr Banks, or is it safe to call you Hopple now we are here?’

  ‘Mr Hopple will do,’ he breathed. ‘But let us keep our conversation low. There are those who watch still. You say you are here on club matters, regarding your uncle Dr Earnshaw. Speak quickly, for I do not wish to dwell on those times.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ I said. ‘We are obviously both busy men.’

  I found myself watching the sinews on his neck, which stuck out like tightened strings on a cello; it seemed as if they would break through his paper-thin skin at any moment. ‘I understand you were the superintendent at the club for many years before Darke and the fire. Did you know my uncle?’

  ‘I knew all the members,’ he said. He paused momentarily, his eyes searching my face. ‘Dr Earnshaw was indeed a long-standing member, one gracious enough to sit in the inner circle.’

  ‘What can you tell me about him? I last saw him when I was but five. I knew he was a medical man but my mother would never speak of his character.’

  ‘He was a great and learned man, in my experience; never short of a kind word or deed, hard working and dedicated to his poor family.’

  ‘Poor family?’

  ‘Yes, both of his children died very young. That is how he came to meet Sibelius Darke in the first place. Darke photographed his children – post mortem. A strange and morbid business, if you ask me, but then you only have to look at how Darke turned out to see that.’

  ‘Did you know Darke well?’

  ‘Not really. He was a member of the club, of course, recommended by your uncle, in fact, but he never seemed to fit in. It was all a bit above him. He was a career-minded individual, desperate to drag himself out of his immigrant squalor but, in the end, his nature got the better of him.’ His breathing became more ragged, and he stopped talking to regain his wind. ‘I apologise, sir. My lungs are not what they were; the damage from the fire goes much deeper than these outward scars.’

  ‘Did the club know what Darke was up to?’ I asked. ‘Were they complicit with his crimes?’

  ‘The gentlemen of the Dolorian Club were fine, upstanding members of society; they still are fine and upstanding. They have nothing but the success of society at their heart; I am sure that they were not involved in the sins of that monster.’ He paused, realising that he was becoming angered once more by the memory. ‘Enough of Darke, though; too much time has been given to that beast. You wished to find out more about your uncle, did you not?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Do carry on,’ I replied. ‘When was the last day you saw him?’

  ‘Well, it was on the day of the fire, of course. He had arrived early in the morning and took his seat in the second-floor study to read the papers. He told me that he was not to be disturbed unless on club business. He was pleasant; Dr Earnshaw was always polite and friendly towards everyone in the club. It was a day much like any other, until Mr Darke arrived requesting to see your uncle. Dr Earnshaw took great pleasure in this news, asking that Darke be brought to him immediately. He seemed to have been expecting him, which was odd, as your uncle only tended to meet with other members of the inner circle.’

  ‘This inner circle, can you tell me who they were? I should like to try to contact them to invite them to the memorial.’

  ‘They were private men – they still are. I am sure that they would not be pleased if I should begin to bandy their names around to all who would listen.’ He fell silent and looked down at the table.

  ‘You are obviously a very loyal man, Mr Hopple. I take it you are not in the employ of the Dolorian Club now?’

  ‘I am not, but they were good to me following the fire.’ His voice cracked as he spoke. ‘I hid, you see. When Sibelius Darke started the blaze, and began shooting and killing anyone he saw, I hid in a store cupboard and prayed for my life. I crouched on the floor, listening to the screams of the dying and the roar of the flames and I entreated the Lord to save me, but the fire came to me, it took the door of the cupboard – and that is when I ran. I ran through the flames, my skin crackling in the heat. I fell through the door of the club, tumbling down the steps onto the street below. I was thought to be dead at first and, had it not been for one of the club members, I would have been left. He saved my life, he revived me and he made sure that I was given the medical attention I needed.

  ‘I was taken to the Sussex County Hospital in Brighton, where I stayed for two years at my saviour’s expense. When I finally left the hospital he offered me employment back at the club, which I took for a few short months before moving on to work as a valet for Lord Bracken. The original Dolorian Club had burned to the ground, but many of the members were not there on the day of the fire and so, thanks to the good graces and finances of my saviour, it simply moved location. I understand the club still operates from his London home.’

  ‘And your… saviour, was he a confidant of
my uncle?’

  ‘Why yes, he was also a member of the inner circle. I understand they were great friends.’

  I shuffled slightly in my seat.

  ‘I understand, of course, that these gentlemen wish their privacy to be respected and maintained at all times, but I would like to contact this friend of my uncle’s. Could you perhaps give me his name?’

  The ragged breathing of the man filled the short silence as we stared into each other’s eyes.

  ‘You mentioned the possibility of a financial reward in your first communication,’ Hopple said. His eyes did not move from me. I pulled out my wallet, and he continued. ‘The man who saved the club and who indeed saved me on the day that Darke brought about his evil is Lord William Falconer. I doubt that he will see you; he is a proud man, protective of his company and suspicious of those seeking his attentions.’ He took the money from my hand, a look of shame crossing his face. ‘I will take my leave of you now,’ he said. ‘I hope all goes well for your… memorial.’

  Without another word he shuffled from his seat and left me. As he walked out of the door I allowed a broad smile to plant itself on my face.

  ***

  After leaving the Rainbow, my mind fizzing with this new piece of information, I made my way to the police station in the hope of catching Abe Thomas to run the name of Falconer past him. He was not there, however; the desk sergeant told me that he had been called away on a matter of some urgency.

  ‘Has there been another murder?’ I asked, wondering if this day could get any better.

  ‘I cannot say, not least to you, Mr Weaver,’ said the sergeant. ‘I read your piece in the paper, we all did, and we are all under strict orders from above to not speak to you or any of your lot.’

  ‘Of course,’ I smiled. ‘If the good Inspector returns, please pass on my best regards and ask him to contact me, if you would.’

  I spent the afternoon wandering the streets of Paddington and Marylebone, checking the drinking houses that he normally frequented, in the hope of seeing some sign of the Inspector. There was none and so I returned to my rooms, hoping that Alice had prepared a good meal.

  As I walked down the corridor, I heard the sound of voices coming from the other side of the door. I paused for a moment. I recognised Alice’s voice but the other was unknown to me. It was not Benjamin, it was far too deep; this was the voice of a man. How dare she? How dare she invite a man back to my rooms; had she no sense of dignity or gratitude?

  I flung the door open and strode in, but rather than finding some kind of illicit liaison, Alice was in the kitchen making tea when I entered, and an older gentleman sat in the chair at my desk, looking out of the window. Alice rushed to the kitchen doorway, holding my teapot.

  ‘Sam,’ she said, smiling. ‘Your friend Fred Draper has just arrived to see you.’

  At the mention of his name, the man turned to face me. Of course, I knew this man well, very well indeed. Ever since my arrival in London, I had ceaselessly attempted to hunt Inspector Frederick Draper down.

  And now, it would seem, he had found me.

  8

  An Inspector's Fall

  Inspector Frederick Draper had disappeared soon after the news of the slaughter at the Dolorian Club and the death of Sibelius Darke had hit the front pages. Unidentified sources inside the police had made it common knowledge that Darke had been under the watch of Draper during his investigations and had been interviewed at least twice. How Darke had managed to slip through the net and continue to carry out such wilful bloodshed was a matter of some embarrassment to both Draper and to the police as a whole.

  Draper’s office had been cleared and, despite the best efforts of some of London’s top newspaper correspondents, there seemed to be no sign of the man whom everyone held to be as guilty as Sibelius Darke himself for the terrible crimes that had been committed.

  Rumours abounded that Draper’s father, himself a high-ranking member of the police force, had arranged for Frederick’s disappearance. There was talk that he had been relocated to Southern Africa, working under an assumed name for the High Commissioner there, Sir Henry Bartle Frere, in a minor accounting and administrative role. The Times even sent one of their correspondents out to find Draper, a search that proved fruitless when they came up against some good old-fashioned British secrecy and stubbornness.

  I had conducted my own investigations, of course, interviewing many who had known Inspector Draper during the Darke murders, including Abe Thomas. Details were few and far between, however; I had descriptions of him, and amassed recollections of fleeting encounters with him, but nothing that would give me any clues as to the nature of his disappearance or his final destination.

  And now, six years after the public outcry at Inspector Draper’s failure to prevent the murders, here he was – sitting bold as brass at my desk and accepting a cup of tea from Alice.

  I remained as calm as possible and took a seat opposite him. He was a tall man, lean of face; his pale skin stretched across angular cheekbones. There was a patch of hair atop his head which seemed to have been carefully arranged with the design of fooling those around him as to the number of strands still growing there. His small beard, which was of a similar but slightly darker colour, was well trimmed and neat. He was stylishly dressed, wearing a dark brown suit of good tailoring, set off by a pair of well-crafted, finely polished shoes. He did not give me the impression of a man in hiding at all; in fact, there was nothing about Frederick Draper that suggested he was in any way in fear of discovery.

  ‘You are a difficult man to find,’ I said, unable to take my eyes from him.

  ‘I have good friends,’ he replied, his voice sharp. ‘When you look after your friends, they will always reciprocate when the need arises. Of course, there really should not be any need to find me. I am not an interesting man and people have lost interest in old news; only the most dogged individuals remember my name and try to hunt me out.’ His eyes flashed at me as he spoke.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, as Alice brought me a cup of tea. ‘I find that, when something or someone piques my interest, my dogged nature will come to the fore.’

  Alice had returned to the kitchen and I heard light whispering coming through the doorway. Benjamin was probably in there with her.

  ‘Alice!’ I called, ‘Harridge’s on the high street will be closing shortly. Would you mind taking Benjamin and fetching something for dinner tonight?’

  She quickly realised that I required some privacy and led Benjamin from the kitchen. The boy dawdled and smiled at Draper as he passed.

  ‘I shall see you shortly, young master Griffiths,’ I said.

  ‘Bye,’ Benjamin muttered, before hurrying after his sister.

  ‘The boy has not stopped talking about you, Mr Weaver,’ Draper said, smiling. ‘He tells me that you saved him and his sister.’

  ‘Benjamin can talk? He has said no more than five words to me in a fortnight, and yet he freely converses with you. I must be doing something wrong.’

  ‘You are doing nothing wrong; that is often the way with children and their heroes. Give him time; perhaps even try speaking to him. You will be amazed at how much he has to say.’ He paused for a second before continuing, ‘Why did you take them in? What kind of play is it?’

  ‘Play?’ I replied. ‘You think the worst of me. There is no play here. Call it a whim, a sudden lapse in concentration; I do not have them often.’

  ‘That is what I hear. It was a great surprise to find them both here when I arrived. Much of what is said about you must be wrong if it was just out of the goodness of your heart.’

  ‘I suppose it depends on who you have been speaking to – who was that by the way?’

  Draper grinned and took a sip of his tea.

  ‘Like I said, Mr Weaver, I have good friends and colleagues that look out for me. Much like yours.’

  ‘Mine? What friends do I have?’

  ‘I am referring to our mutual friend, Abe Thomas. He is one of t
he reasons for my visit to you this evening.’

  ‘But Abe told me that he did not know your whereabouts.’

  ‘And that is why he is a good friend. He tells me that you have been asking a lot of questions about the Darke case and I think he is becoming worried that you may cause yourself more trouble than you expect. I share his concerns. Despite your apparent obsession with the case, there is much that you do not know, much that could place you and yours in danger if you persist.’

  ‘There is no need for concern. I can look after myself,’ I said, settling back in my chair. ‘I have an interest in the murders, that is all. Sibelius Darke was a vicious murderer and cannibal who killed members of his own family, slaughtered and ate children and burnt down a gentleman’s club. All of this is public knowledge; I am just trying to piece the story together – for my own ambitions.’ I glanced at his expression, which, despite his best efforts to contain it, betrayed a slight twitch. ‘I am not seeking some great conspiracy here, Inspector. It doesn’t hold much weight with me, I’m afraid, although it would sell more papers if it were true. You see, I have listened to the fearful ramblings of those who feel that there were greater powers at work. I have even heard that Sibelius Darke was innocent. How do you like that?’