Sinistrari

by Giles Ekins

  Once Lucy and Mrs Cope had drip fed the best part of a teapot of hot tea into Collingwood through the copper funnel, Mrs Cope then disappeared back into the depths of her kitchen domain where she intended to boil up some shank of beef into a nutritious beef broth.

  The doctor, Doctor Knott-Dyson duly arrived but proved to be worse than useless. He made a great play of examining Collingwood’s tongue and eyes, feeling his faint pulse – tut tutting to himself – treating the most deeply incised cuts and wounds on his body before prescribing a potion of his own concoction –which he just happened to have in his bag. ‘I have found this particular medicament most efficacious in cases such as this;’ he pontificated, as though he were called out to treat naked middle-aged men suffering from dehydration and extreme hypothermia every day of the week. ‘Two tablespoons three times a day,’ he intoned. ‘I’ll return tomorrow to review his prognoses.’

  All through the night Lucy sat by her Father, slowly trickling hot sweet tea and beef broth into his mouth. She banked up the fire in the fireplace and slowly, slowly, Collingwood came back from the depths of hypothermia as his body core temperature was restored.

  Nevertheless, he remained largely unconscious, slipping in and out of a shallow coma as his body fought to regain equilibrium.

  Then a pneumonic fever set in. He thrashed and sweated in his bed, shouting out aloud, crying in jagged sobs and then suddenly sinking back into still silent unconsciousness so deep that Lucy twice thought he had died. She stayed with him throughout, snatching a few minutes of shallow sleep in the winged armchair, she had Jenkins bring upstairs from the study. Jenkins now loathed her, bitterly upset at the loss of his authority – a fact of which Lucy was well aware and determined to deal with once her father had recovered.

  On the second day following his return, Lucy sent word to Scotland Yard, to James Monro, the Assistant Commissioner. Monro came straight around, sat with Lucy for an hour or so at Collingwood’s bedside, prayed with her for her Father’s recovery and asked that he be kept fully informed.

  THE FEVER RAGED FOR FIVE DAYS BEFORE finally Collingwood came round. The flesh had fallen away from his body, ebbed away from his frame from hunger and the sweats so that he lay gaunt and haggard, a heavy beard now cladding his chin beneath the mutton-chop whiskers. His eyes sunk deep into yellow bruised pits, but within his eyes lay hope and life where once had been despair. His breathing was steady and at ease, and he slowly came too, as if awakening from a good night’s sleep.

  Lucy as ever sat beside him, holding his hand in hers, as she had done for most of the past five days. He blinked slowly, as if unused to light, even the soft light in his shaded bedroom seemed too bright and he winced as his eyes adjusted to unaccustomed sight. He looked around, seeing his surroundings as if for the first time, his head and eyes swivelling to all corners of the room before coming to light on Lucy. Recognition flared into his eyes and he struggled to raise himself but found no strength to do so and slumped back into his pillows.

  ‘Lucy,’ he gasped, squeezing her hand. ‘Danger.’

  ‘Shhhhh, Papa, you are safe now. There is no danger.’

  ‘No you…danger!’

  Lucy leaned over and kissed her father on his forehead, beading his heavy eyebrows with tears like pearl drops. ‘Just rest Papa, all is safe now.’

  ‘Lucy …’Collingwood gasped again, his throat still raw and agonised, ‘Must … go … stay … Aunt Harriett … today.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Papa, we can’t go and see Aunt Harriet today. When you are better perhaps we can all go; the fresh air at Scarborough will be most beneficial I am sure, but rest first Papa and regain your strength,’ and she kissed him again. As she tried to raise from him, he reached up to grip her arm with surprising strength.

  ‘Sinistrari … take … you … Crucifixion. Devil. Must hide, danger.’

  ‘You’ve been very ill, Papa. I’ll send for Doctor Knott-Dyson, I consider the man to be less than competent, but he should examine you again now you are awake.’

  ‘Dewar, not Knott-Dyson. Dewar! Hamilton Dewar at St Bartholomew’s. Send for … him, Lucy. He can … tell you. And Mister Monro. I must see him … Gimlet.’

  The effort of talking exhausted Collingwood and he sank back into his bed, closed his eyes and slipped back into sleep once more, his breathing easy and relaxed. When he awoke he once more tried to convince Lucy of danger, but she dismissed his fears as fantasy brought on by illness.

  When he woke on another occasion he found Doctor Hamilton Dewar, pathologist from St Bartholomew’s Hospital examining him. ‘So, Collingwood, you have decided to re-join us. Good, although I must say I’ve had rather healthier looking specimens than you lying on the slab at St. Bart’s. In fact I nearly had you opened up and ready to PM.’ Dewar held up a battered brown leather medical bag, ‘You see, I even brought my wee knives, just in case.’

  Dewar’s rough good humour was a tonic, helping to raise Collingwood’s deep depression and worry over Lucy. He did not want to alarm Lucy too greatly, but he had to make her aware of the dangers that Sinistrari posed and so seek safety. He thought that Dewar might aid him in this –without specifying in graphical detail the crucifixion and mutilation of Sinistrari’s victims – but Lucy, strong headed and stubborn like her father – refused to listen – insisting that her place was at his side and steadfastly rejected any further suggestions that she seek refuge with her Aunt Harriet, a spinster sister of Collingwood’s who lived in a large double fronted house overlooking Scarborough’s South Bay.

  JAMES MONRO CAME TO VISIT. Collingwood briefed him as well as he could, there were gaps in his memory, he could not for instance recall how he had got out from the Thames to find his way home. He could recall his terrifying desperate clawing dive beneath the vicious spikes, he had the still raw wounds across his back remind him (and the nightmares that would haunt for ages after – in his awful dreams he did not escape but was impaled against the spikes, drowning, spread-eagled like a crucifixion victim whilst Sinistrari crushed his head between stone blocks). He told of the death of Gimlet – and the discovery of the body of another girl. He told of his incarceration in the crypt by Sinistrari, learning to his surprise that he had been missing for almost six days – and that he had lost another five days since then. He made light of his escape but expressed surprise that the Police had not searched for Gimlet and him at Blackwater House.

  ‘But we did, Charles,’ Monro answered. ‘Naturally it was one of the first places we checked, I personally sent two constables to check, they searched the house and found nothing.’

  ‘The cellar staircase … the cellar staircase must be there still?’

  ‘No Charles, there is nothing, no cellar staircase, nothing. It must have been bricked over and plastered and painted, there was no cellar access, believe me they searched everywhere. There is no stairway; it must have been filled solid, impossible to tell that there was a cellar at all. We simply assumed that the municipal authorities had closed it in order to keep out the curious and ghoulish. Myself, had I the slightest inclination I would have torn the place down, stone by stone. However, I must also confess that because of the uncommonly clandestine nature of the enquiries in hand, I presumed that you had found a lead and were in hot pursuit elsewhere and did not take too seriously the thought that you might be at Blackwater House. After all you gave no indication to anyone you were going there, in contravention of Standing Orders, I might add. Of course, after another day or so, we became seriously concerned. Poor Lucy was quite distraught but …’ Monro tailed off; embarrassed that he had not followed up more diligently the search of Blackwater house.

  Monro also took the threat to Lucy too lightly for Collingwood’s liking, unwilling to accept fully the dangers. He offered to station a constable outside the front door of the house – but what chance a constable armed only with a wooden truncheon would have against Sinistrari – a fiend imperious to bullets – Lord alone knew thought Collingwood bitterly.


  It was only after Monro had left that the sudden thought came to Collingwood and he smacked his own forehead in consternation. ‘Idiot! Idiot! he berated himself. What stupidity! It might have been far easier to break out through the blocked off cellar door rather than through the tunnel to the river. Idiot. Idiot.

  Why, he asked himself time and again; why had he overlooked something so obvious as breaking out through the cellar door when he had the tools at hand to do so? But the only rationale, unsatisfactory though it was, was that he had sub-consciously avoided that section of the crypt where poor Gimlet’s agonised and burnt body lay.

  But what was done was done. He had escaped and that was all that counted.

  Police returned to Blackwater House, the bricked up cellar door was broken open and the bodies of Gimlet and the unknown crucified girl were recovered and the Home Secretary, Mister Henry Matthews, ordered the complete destruction of that vile and tainted property. Razed to the ground so that it might forever be expunged from sight and hopefully, in time, memory.

  As he had died in the course of duty, Sergeant Herbert Gimlet received a full Police funeral similar to that of PC Percy Gutteridge and he was buried with full police honours, his widow Millie walking proudly beside the cortege, her small children by her side. Even though he had still been desperately ill from his ordeal, Collingwood had forced himself to attend the service. Millie Gimlet had accepted his condolences with forced good grace but it was clear to Collingwood that she blamed him for the death of her husband and with a heavy heart, he had left her to her grief, knowing his presence would only serve to add to her anguish.

  COLLINGWOOD’S SLOW RECOVERY CONTINUED – eventually he was able to rise from his bed and with the aid of Maitland, the footman, was able to hobble painfully to the bathroom and a hot bath. Afterwards he sat in a chair by his bedroom window – which Lucy refused to open in case he caught a chill to his chest – and watched the passing of the world as it flowed by his window, an endless stream of carriages and coaches, of hansom cabs and brewer’s drays, of people and horses and dogs. The autumn sunbeams streamed through the windows, warming his body. He still craved heat, striving to store up warmth like a firebrick – as if he could never be fully warm again.

  He had other visitors, colleagues from the police and friends from his club but after the second or third week, these fell away. Charles Collingwood could or would not tell them of his ordeal, after all who would believe it, so he was awkward, and uncommunicative, morose poor company and after small talk and the wishes for a speedy recovery had dried up, so did the visits.

  Apart from Mrs Constance Fletcher that is; the mother of Lucy’s friend Annabel Fletcher with whom she had been to school. Constance was a widow, her husband another police officer who had died of a sudden heart attack one Sunday morning whilst breakfasting on devilled kidneys and kedgeree, he gasped once, clasped his chest, keeled over to bury his face in the rice and onion, and smoked haddock of the kedgeree.

  Constance Fletcher had high (desperate) hopes of becoming the second Mrs. Charles Collingwood, a fate the he was determined to avoid at all costs. They had once been occasional lovers but he found her cloying attentions and all too obvious attempts to get him to the altar an irritation. After all, in her mind what could be more apposite, a widow and widower with daughters who were best friends and her police widow’s pension barely covering her living costs and Charles Collingwood a man of property having inherited his fine house from his father and known to have bequests from other relatives. And so she came every day, sometimes twice a day to sit beside and prattle on endlessly about nothing that remotely interested him, driving him further into depressed introspection.

  After she had spent the best part of an hour telling how he should redecorate the house, (a discourse in which he neither contributed nor took in one word) she finally flounced out in high dudgeon, threatening never to return and he merely grunted, ‘That would suit me very well, Constance.’

  Chapter 18

  THE HOME OF CHIEF INSECTOR COLLINGWOOD, ST JOHN’S WOOD

  ON THE THIRTEENTH DAY of his convalescence, Jenkins brought to Collingwood a highly polished black leather box, about the size of a shoe-box. Jenkins carried the box on a silver tray, balancing the tray upon the tips of his fingers, holding the tray away from his body as though it carried something particularly obnoxious. Collingwood was in his chair by the window again, the bright morning sunrays streaming through the window reflected off the gleaming black leather as keenly as a mirror.

  Clasping the box between his palms (his hands were still bandaged) Collingwood lifted it from the tray and carefully laid it down on the marquetry inlaid side table alongside his chair, turning the box to catch the most light from the window.

  A band of black paper wrapped about the box and was sealed with red sealing wax into which a signet ring had been impressed. The seal was smudged, so that Collingwood was unable to make out the imprint but a nasty worm of apprehension was making him uneasy. Taking the silver paper knife that Jenkins offered, Collingwood slit the paper band and pulled it away, his heart suddenly quickening as he saw a fanciful S deeply embossed onto the lid of the box.

  ‘Who delivered this, Jenkins?’ he asked shakily, tracing his bandaged fingers across the embossment.

  ‘Just some street urchin, sir, cheeky beggar said as how I was to give him a sixpence for his trouble, I’ll give you a good box around the ears, you idle scamp I told him and I would’ve done if he hadn’t scarpered but sharpish.’

  Collingwood barely heard what Jenkins was saying as he fumbled at the brass catch with his thumb, but could not release it, the swathings of bandage too heavy to allow deft movement or feeling.

  ‘Would you allow me to do that, sir?, said Jenkins, hovering by Collingwood’s elbow, his urgent curiosity to discover the contents of the mysterious box written all over his long droopy face.

  ‘Thank you, Jenkins, but no. I shall mange perfectly adequately.’

  ‘Are you sure sir, I mean, with your hands like that.’

  ‘Thank you Jenkins,’ Collingwood answered acidly, under no circumstances did he want his nosey butler discovering the contents of Sinistrari’s offering, whatever it might be.

  ‘It’s really no trouble at all, sir.’

  ‘That will be all, thank you Jenkins.’

  ‘Would there be anything else sir?’ the butler asked, desperately curious to know what was in the box.

  ‘I will summon you if there is, Jenkins,’ he responded coldly.

  ‘Very good, Sir,’ said Jenkins unctuously, realising he might have gone too far.

  Jenkins walked stiffly from the room, his back iron-rod straight in indignation. Something is vexing him, Collingwood thought briefly, and then dismissed it from his mind. He lifted the box upon again, sniffing at the rich tang of the leather. He gently shook the box, unknown objects slid about loosely inside.

  He laid the box back onto the side table and using the paper knife slowly released the brass catch, holding his breath as he did so. He had half expected the lid to spring open, revealing some fell imp but nothing happened. The box lay there inert. Slowly he raised the lid, once more using the paper knife to do so. Nothing exploded. Nothing leapt or slithered out. No smoke from poisonous fumes. No smell, no sound. He flipped the lid fully open. Inside the box lay his pipe and tobacco pouch, pocketknife, notebook, pen, wallet and his grandfather’s watch. At the bottom of the box, beneath his possessions, he could see a crisp white envelope.

  A single embossed card lay on top of the contents, with the name Edward J Sinistrari printed upon it.

  Clumsily Collingwood emptied the contents, laying them out one by one on the table alongside the box. He picked up the watch, held it to his ear and gently shook it to see if it was working. The steady tick tock tick was reassuring, as if to say that some things can never change. He checked the time against the tall pendulum clock in the corner of his room. The watch was set to exactly the same time. He laid out the other conte
nts of the box, sniffed at the bowl of his pipe, checked to see that his warrant card was still clipped to his wallet and sat back in his chair again. He felt desperately reluctant to open the letter that now stood propped up against the leather box; apprehension gnawing at his innards like a rat inside a carcass.

  He could put off the dread moment no longer. Taking several deep breaths, he picked up the heavy linen paper envelope in both hands, turning it over and over, still unwilling to open it.

  The letter was correctly addressed – Detective Chief Inspector Charles Collingwood – the name and address written in flowing educated penmanship, the ink a rich black. A swirly S was embossed on the gummed flap and more shivers of dread trepidation iced down his spine.

  Not without difficulty, he gingerly slit open the flap of the envelope with the paper knife. Carefully using his handkerchief, he eased out the single sheet of paper from the gutted envelope. Why he was so careful, he could not have said. He was aware of the work by Sir Francis Galton, theorising that fingerprints were a unique means of identification but as yet no case had ever been brought to the Courts to test the hypothesis and Collingwood doubted one ever would. Nevertheless, he found the theory fascinating and avidly read any publications on the subject that he could find, including the works of William Herschel, an earlier advocate of fingerprinting. Perhaps some innate caution simply prompted him to be solicitous of potential clues. Not that he had any doubt as to the sender of the missive. Only after he had eased the sheet of paper out from the envelope – an envelope made from high quality linen paper – did Collingwood realise that the highly polished leather box might also carry Sinistrari’s fingerprints and berated himself for having been so clumsy in handling it. Jenkins would also have contaminated the potential fingerprint evidence – if such a thing really did exist – no court in the land would ever convict a man on the evidence of his fingerprints and it was folly to think even of such a thing. Passing thoughts to put off the dread moment when he had to open the letter. Slowly he unfolded the sheet of paper and smoothed it out.