by Alan Beechey
“The computer turned up absolutely nothing,” Mallard reported wearily. “The victims never worked together, didn’t go the same schools, didn’t belong to the same clubs, didn’t correspond with each other…”
“Four of the victims lived in London,” Oliver suggested.
“The murders took place in London!” Mallard cried disparagingly. “That means four times out of six, the murderer chose victims who were only a bus ride from their place of execution. Big fornicating deal! And even that can’t account for Gordon Paper, who lived all his life in Yorkshire, or Archie Brock, who was summoned up from Kent.”
“But like Nettie Clapper, Archie Brock used to live in west London,” Oliver persisted. He sensed Mallard’s despondency and he knew the only way to combat it was to pepper him with fresh ideas. “If you go back a couple of years, you had the Pisces living in Barnes, the Aquarius in Brentford, the Capricorn in Richmond, the Scorpio in Kingston, and the Libra in Isleworth. Five out of the six victims were living within a few miles of each other, all close to the Thames.”
“And so what?” Mallard sighed. He took off his spectacles and twirled them around his hand. “Suppose the murderer’s motivation is to bump off anyone who rubbed him up the wrong way—Vanessa Parmenter bungled his travel arrangements, Mark Sandys-Penza failed to sell his maisonette, Harry refused to buy a poppy from him on Remembrance Day. Or he may have chosen them for convenience. You want a Pisces to come alone to Trafalgar Square at six in the morning and not put up too much of a fight? Who better than an aging writer who’s been up half the night drinking at a club round the corner? A needy, working-class lady from the suburbs is exactly the Aquarius who’d want to be met at the tube station, because she’s unsure of her way around the unfamiliar streets of Belgravia. A shady Capricorn estate agent from Richmond won’t think twice before meeting his mythical client in the anonymous surroundings of Kew Gardens, a mile or two down the road. I need something more predictive.”
Oliver glanced down again. The ferret was awake and was nuzzling the inside of the box. He lifted the animal into his lap and gently scratched the back of its head. It seemed to like the attention and settled itself comfortably.
“How does your convenience theory account for Gordon Paper?” he asked.
“It takes some bottle to entice a rural Yorkshire recluse with travel sickness into Piccadilly Circus at lunchtime,” Mallard replied with a shrug. “Maybe the killer wanted to show us how manipulative he can be.”
“But was that worth losing a thread of his pattern, the birth signs of his victims?” Oliver persisted.
Mallard smiled bitterly. “I have a surprise for you, Ollie. You asked the right question yesterday. Vanessa Parmenter was a Scorpio. And Archie Brock was a Libra. Gordon Paper was an odd man out. That means tomorrow’s victim will probably be a Virgo, after all. Unfortunately, the restoration of the complete pattern doesn’t bring us any closer to stopping these murders.” He broke off, remembering uncomfortably that he had heard the same words from the lips of the Assistant Commissioner only two hours earlier.
Oliver was silent.
“I’m sorry, Ollie,” Mallard continued. “I know a connection between the victims would help us pinpoint the Virgo. But the computer confirms it: The victims had nothing in common. We have to fall back on the evidence we’ve already collected.”
“Nothing in common,” Oliver repeated thoughtfully.
Then he started suddenly. The ferret looked up with a hurt expression on its face. “Then that’s where we’re going wrong!” Oliver exclaimed. “The computer is looking for things that the victims have in common. What we should be looking for is differences!”
He hastily dropped the animal back into its carrier and turned to Mallard with excitement.
“Uncle Tim, you’re telling me that the victims have a sequential string of birth signs, right? But would your computer have even spotted that?”
“I don’t…”
“No! Because it’s looking for similarities. It would only have gone beep or ding or twang if they’d all had the same birth sign!”
“Go on,” said Mallard cautiously.
“If five of the six victims had all been brain surgeons, for example, your precious computer would have blown a gasket,” Oliver continued. “But if they’d been, respectively, a tinker, a tailor, a soldier, a sailor, and a rich man, the computer would have ignored it. Because there’s no similarity between those professions. It takes a human mind to see the pattern!”
“So our victims may have nothing in common as a group, but they could still be part of a sequence?”
“Yes!” Oliver cried. “Individually, they may each epitomize some element in another pattern, in addition to their zodiac signs. If there is a hidden pattern, and we can find it, we may finally get ahead of the killer.”
“But as Effie keeps telling us, the odds against our finding any other connection are astronomical. Or astrological.”
“That’s when we assumed the killer was trying to find a pattern that would match twelve victims he’d already chosen. It’s easier the other way round—choosing victims to match a pattern. Even two patterns. You just need a tinker who’s also a Pisces, a tailor who’s an Aquarius, a Capricorn soldier, a Sagittarius sailor….”
“But what is there to suggest a hidden connection?”
“It’s the way the killer thinks,” Oliver claimed earnestly. “It’s all a game to him. He’s gone out of his way to signal the zodiac—calling cards, birthdays, locations, methods of killing. That was for novices. Finding the elusive second thread, if it exists, is for experts at the game. What can we lose by trying it?”
It was the challenge Mallard needed. He sat up straight and ran his hands through his milky hair. “Then if we want to save the Virgo, we’ve got less than an hour to find this other pattern. If there is one.” He put his glasses on. “So get fish-face to bring me a coffee.”
Oliver beckoned the fish-waiter, who was floating near the door.
“Have some wine,” the waiter said as he approached, making an encouraging gesture toward the table between the two men.
“I don’t see any wine,” Mallard muttered distractedly.
“There isn’t any!” exclaimed the waiter, triumphantly completing the syllogism.
“A pot of coffee and a pot of tea, please,” said Oliver quickly, noticing the look on Mallard’s face.
“There’s cocoa at midnight, sir,” the waiter reminded him. “And tarts.”
“Coffee, tea, now.”
“Okay, what alternatives spring to mind,” asked Mallard after the waiter had drifted moodily away.
Oliver picked up his uncle’s notebook and turned to a fresh page. Then he wrote the list of the victims and their professions.
Pisces: Harry Random, writer
Aquarius: Nettie Clapper, part-time home help
Capricorn: Mark Sandys-Penza, estate agent
Sagittarius: Gordon Paper, research chemist
Scorpio: Vanessa Parmenter, travel agent
Libra: Archibald Brock, retired railway guard
“Well, we don’t actually have a tinker or a tailor,” Mallard commented. “Neither do we have a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick-maker.”
“Random, Clapper, Sandys-Penza. Paper, Parmenter, Brock,” Oliver intoned. “Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t even scan. How about first names? Harry, Nettie, Mark, Gordon, Vanessa, Archie. Not biblical names. Are these the names of characters in a play or a novel?”
“Maybe there’s an additional link between the names and the birth sign. Sir Harry Random was a Pisces—fish swim at random. Nettie Clapper, the Aquarian—a net can be associated with water bearers. No, it doesn’t work, does it? I suppose it would help if we knew what Nettie was short for.”
“Henrietta, probably. Or Antoinette.”
“And Harry’s short fo
r Henry. Any connection with kings and queens?”
“I don’t think there’s ever been a King Gordon,” said Oliver. “And Harry Random’s name was short for Hargreaves, not Henry.” He glanced at a framed picture above his uncle’s head, an original sketch by Henry Holiday. “How about characters in The Hunting of the Snark?”
“Remind me.”
“The Bellman, the Boots, the Bonnet-maker, the Barrister, the Broker, the Billiard-marker, the Banker, the Beaver, the Baker, and the Butcher.”
“That’s only ten. Does it fit?”
The fish-waiter arrived with the tray, but they ignored him. Mallard was alert now, revitalized by the chance to save another life from his adversary. Oliver found he could still enjoy the exercise as an intriguing abstraction, grappling with the mind and intentions of the killer. It was like doing crossword puzzles, which he’d often claimed were harder to solve than to set because the setter already knew the answers. But Mallard was in deeper, and could place no distance between his actions and the expected death, almost as if he were trying to save his own life by solving the conundrum. Oliver knew there was a perverse temptation to admire the killer, almost to will him to kill again for the entertainment value of the next death. But he knew that Mallard never fell into that trap, and would be overjoyed if the Murder Squad became superfluous to the nation’s needs. The potential second thread had become a lifeline that he grasped joyfully, hauling himself back to full vigilance.
As they pitched ideas and patterns between them—is there a connection with the twelve apostles? the ten commandments? Wren’s churches? Pooh’s companions? Shakespeare’s plays? the Labors of Hercules? the “Carry On” films?—Oliver prayed his idea would yet bear fruit, and that Mallard would not be tossed back into impotence, exhaustion, failure. But as midnight approached, the second thread stayed hidden.
“I still say the places they lived are our best leads,” Mallard snapped impatiently as another of Oliver’s patterns failed to work—that each victim shared the same initials as successive stops on the Piccadilly Line. He drained his cup of the last cold splash of coffee. “Except for Gordon Paper we have five people who once—and not too long ago—lived no more than five miles from each other.”
“And except for Gordon Paper, we have a perfect match of birth sign to site of death,” Oliver reminded him.
“The phrase ‘except for Gordon Paper’ seems to come up a lot,” Mallard commented. “Would this be easier if we left him out and tried to find a connection that works for the others?”
There was a sudden, breathy, one-note fanfare, which caused them both to jump.
“Dear God, what on earth is that?” Mallard exclaimed, looking in the direction of the noise. By the door to the lounge, the fish-waiter was tucking a long trumpet under his arm. Then he came to attention.
“The trial’s beginning! The trial’s beginning!” he called in a loud voice and disappeared.
“That means the cocoa and jam tarts are being served in the next room,” Oliver told him. “You know, it’s a reference to the Knave of Hearts’ trial in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The tarts were the evidence.”
“It also means it’s midnight,” said Mallard resignedly, getting stiffly to his feet. He began to look fatigued again. “Virgo day has begun. I’ll run you and your little friend home.”
Oliver leaned over the arm of his chair to see if the ferret had fallen asleep again. The creature wasn’t visible, so he lifted the case onto his lap, opening the clear plastic lid. But the box was empty. He must have forgotten to secure the catches, and the inquisitive animal had pried its way out while the two men were preoccupied. Oliver leaped to his feet and searched frantically under the cushions on his chair.
“Need some loose change for the bus?” Mallard inquired languidly. “I said I’d drive you.”
“The ferret’s escaped. What should I do?”
“I thought you were the expert on ferrets. Where would it have gone?”
Oliver tried to remember his research. “They like to burrow into cushions and upholstery.”
“So would I right now,” Mallard commented with a yawn. “I suggest we shut all the doors between here and the outside world, and then search each room very carefully until we find it. It can’t have got far.”
Oliver led the way out of the members’ lounge, scanning the floor nervously for a flash of light brown fur, and they closed the double doors behind them. The waiter was nowhere to be seen, and the club seemed to be deserted. Oliver was about to turn the catch on the front door, when it swung open abruptly into his face, and a tall man in disheveled evening dress pranced into the lobby. He was clutching a balloon.
“Nobody around?” he asked vaguely, with a broad, tipsy smile. Then he caught sight of Oliver behind the door, and his smile vanished. “Oh, it’s you, Swithin. Is it some sort of family curse that causes you to haunt this lobby?”
“Good evening, Mr. Scroop,” said Oliver politely. “Celebrating something?”
“Sold another book, actually. Who’s this?” Scroop attempted to focus his gaze on Mallard. Oliver knew his manners.
“Uncle Tim, this is one of our members, Mr. Scroop. He writes books about footballs that are really UFOs. Mr. Scroop, this is my uncle, Detective Superintendent Mallard of New Scotland Yard.”
“Pull the other one,” said Scroop, spinning away unsteadily from Mallard’s proffered hand. “I know you, Swithin, you’re as full of tricks as your benighted Finsbury. This gentleman is probably a cab driver. Well, I’m not falling for it,” he declared loudly, stumbling again. “I’m going to the members’ lounge. Send the whisky in with a decanter of waiter.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” called Oliver as Scroop lurched away.
“And why not?”
“Well, the truth is, I’ve lost my ferret in there.”
Scroop froze. He turned slowly, rocking from side to side on rigid legs, and faced Oliver.
“Nice try, Swithin,” he hissed. “But you don’t catch me twice with that one.”
He started to fall backward, recovered, and let the momentum propel him toward the lounge doors. Oliver began to follow.
“Wait,” snapped Mallard abruptly.
“Oh, but I have to—”
“Wait!”
Mallard was motionless in the center of the lobby, his hands on his hips. He seemed to have grown taller.
“The trial’s beginning!” he shouted triumphantly. “Oliver, what do we need at a trial?”
“Apart from jam tarts? Well, as Lewis Carroll said, ‘Such a trial, dear sir, with no jury or judge would be wasting our br—”
Oliver stopped. He knew what his uncle had just thought of. “A jury?” he offered cautiously.
Mallard nodded slowly. “A jury. Twelve people, drawn from the same geographic area, who have nothing in common with one another. Twelve people, upon whom somebody may want to take revenge.” He ran over to the porter’s desk and lifted the telephone. “We must find the last time each of these people performed jury duty,” he continued breathlessly. “It’s Sunday morning, so it’ll be a while before we can get into the court records. But we can see if any of the surviving relatives can remember.”
“No need.”
Mallard looked up.
“I can remember,” Oliver told him, grinning broadly. “Sir Harry Random was on a jury a little more than two years ago. At the Old Bailey.”
“That’s perfect!” Mallard exclaimed. “Two years ago, all of the victims, bar Paper, lived in the same catchment area. I’ll get Moldwarp to rouse the Central Criminal Court record keepers and we’ll get our hands on a list of jurors. Oh, Ollie, I’m praying there are some familiar names on that list. Why didn’t this occur to us earlier?”
“Because we stopped thinking about geography when Yorkshireman Gordon Paper joined the list of victims,” Oliver reminded him
. “And because a jury would take us back to choosing the pattern to match the victim. Twelve jurors, each with a different birth sign—Effie would tell us the odds are against it.”
“I know, but it’s the best lead we have. And we already know that it fits Sir Harry.”
A sudden screech of terror echoed down the corridor from the members’ lounge.
“Ah, Mr. Scroop’s found my ferret,” said Oliver brightly, while his uncle waited impatiently for his call to be answered. “You know the last time I was here, I was in the lobby with Dworkin…”
He broke off, and a look of horror crossed his face.
“Dworkin,” he said, clutching Mallard’s arm.
“What do you mean, ‘dworking’?” his uncle replied crossly. “I’m not dworking. I’ve never dworked. I wouldn’t know how to dwork.”
“No, no, Dworkin’s our day porter here at the club. He got his job through Harry. Well, that’s how they met—they were on jury duty together.”
“Then for God’s sake see if you can contact him!” Mallard urged, glancing at his wristwatch. “If Dworkin is a Virgo, his life’s already in danger.”
Oliver scurried away to the club office to find Dworkin’s telephone number.
“Although,” Mallard added reflectively, alone in the lobby, “I still can’t fathom how anybody can be killed with a virgin.”
Chapter Eight
Across the street, the clock in St Mary’s church tower chimed midnight. Dworkin had been in bed for two hours, but he still lay awake, counting the strikes, deliberately skipping from seven to nine. Ten…eleven…twelve…thirteen! It jarred pleasurably. He liked to create the unusual in his mind, such as losing count of the stairs in the dark for the thrill of sinking through that last invisible step. It made up for the too-predictable reality of his quotidian life.