by Jack Murray
Perhaps.
For now, though, there was this. A young woman. Murdered before her life had really begun. Murdered in manner that ensured her last seconds on this earth were filled with terror and agony. Murdered by madmen. They had to be stopped.
‘You’re absolutely certain, sir?’
‘Yes, Chief Inspector. I knew I’d seen her face before.’
The Chief Inspector sat back in his seat and turned to Wellbeloved. The sergeant’s face retained that look of permanent scepticism which made him awkward company but an effective policeman. Jellicoe saw no point in asking his sergeant whether he believed they had now identified the young woman. He believed Kit. That was enough. It made sense. They had been unable to trace either Tunstall or the other servant, Bentham. In truth, they hadn’t tried very hard. There were more pressing matters to attend to.
‘Sergeant, you’ll need to find Tunstall’s family. Someone will have to break the news. Find out if she went to see them. If she didn’t, find out what friends she may have had.’
‘It sounds as if she was doing a runner, sir,’ said Wellbeloved. ‘Perhaps she stole something.’
‘Or perhaps she was seeing things in the house that scared her,’ added Kit.
‘In which case she may not have had time to find somewhere to live,’ said Wellbeloved.
‘Try some of the homeless refuges in London,’ suggested Jellicoe. ‘She had to go somewhere. It’ll either be there, her family or a friend. We need to know her whereabouts from the moment she left the Countess and why she left. Get someone to check on Bentham again. Is Fletcher around? Take him off whatever he’s doing; this is the priority.’
Wellbeloved nodded. Without saying anything else, he picked up the photostat copies and walked out of the office. Jellicoe and Kit watched him go. Then Kit turned to Jellicoe. There was a grim smile on his face. Jellicoe noticed this and raised his eyebrows by way of a question.
‘Well, Chief Inspector, this may be the break we’ve been looking for. While your man is checking on the last whereabouts of Miss Tunstall, I have an idea of who I need to speak to now. It may help answer the question of why she left Countess Laskov.’
‘Who do you have in mind?’
‘I doubt you’ll believe me when I tell you.’
27
The account of Patty Tunstall’s murder was now in the news although no details had been provided that would connect it in any way with the other murders. The next day, Fallon Bentham, the former butler to Countess Laskov, had come forward. He’d been staying with his cousin in Birmingham. He was now at Scotland Yard helping the police with their inquiries. Jellicoe took the lead in this, fearful that Wellbeloved’s interrogatory methods would not only be misplaced but probably counterproductive.
At thirty five years of age, Bentham was probably a bit too young to have been involved in the earliest killings. In the Chief Inspector’s mind this did not preclude a connection. However, his whereabouts, once checked, would probably confirm that he could not have had a hand in Tunstall’s death. The key question to be answered was why he and then, Tunstall, had left the Laskov household.
‘What led you and Miss Tunstall to leave?’
Bentham was sweating profusely. Jellicoe was unsure if this was because of guilt or, more likely, fear. The more he studied Bentham, the more he was convinced it went beyond fear. What he was looking at was terror. Pure, unadulterated terror. Nothing to do with any thought that he was a suspect in a crime. This man was in dread of something more sinister.
‘That place was evil, sir.’
‘Evil?’
‘Yes, sir. After the Count died. Before it was strange but they’re all a bit strange. But when he died, she went mad, sir. At first, we thought it was grief. Y’know, picking us up on little things. She’d never leave the house. Didn’t want to see visitors. Then she seemed, one day, to change. It was as if she’d overcome her grief.’
‘How long after the Count’s death was this?’ asked Jellicoe.
‘Three months as good as.’
‘What happened?’
‘She began to go out more. I would take her out to the houses of her friends. She was happier, if you know what I mean, rather than happy. The visits to her friends seemed to give her a lift. Even Patty said as much. She became much nicer again.’
‘But then she began to change?’
Bentham sat back in his seat. Having the opportunity to tell the police was beginning to help. The perceptible quiver of fear in his voice, the restless eye movement began to slow down. The calm, monotonous voice of the Chief Inspector was working to exorcise the demons that had submerged him. This was a catharsis.
‘It wasn’t a change in her. She began changing things in the house and she invited more and more her friends to visit.’
‘What changes in the house?’
‘Everything. Black curtains, black walls. Candles. It was strange but we thought it was just the grief.’
‘And her friends?’
‘This is what we, me and Patty, didn’t like. At first they were just a lot of ‘nobs. You know the sort, harmless old rich people. But then we heard them in that room having these séances. Patty was really afraid.’
‘Were you?’
‘Not at that point. I’ve seen these people, these mediums before. Y’know, fairgrounds and the like. Crystal balls. I thought it was balls. I said as much to Patty.’
For the first time, Bentham managed a smile.
‘But you changed your mind?’
‘Not at first, as I say. After a few months, though, it began to change. The people we were used to seeing stopped coming. Then it was others.’
‘Did you know any of them?’
‘No.’
‘But what was it about them.’
‘I don’t know. There was something dark about them.’
‘Men?’
‘Men and women. They were evil. I don’t know how I know. Actually, I do. Simpkins didn’t like them. At first when they came, he would hiss at them. Then the Countess told us to take him away whenever they came. I think she was embarrassed. Where is Simpkins, by the way?’
‘He’s being looked after,’ replied Jellicoe, keen to move on, ‘What did they do in the room?’
‘I don’t know. We just heard chanting. Not loud. Just low.’
‘What were they saying?’ probed Jellicoe. He knew any servant worth his salt would have had his ear pressed to the door. If he knew Bentham, and he was beginning to, he would have been far too curious not to have listened.’
‘It wasn’t any language I’d ever knew. From what I could hear it was like Latin or something, but I couldn’t be sure.’
‘What did Miss Tunstall think?’
‘She stayed well out of it. She said they looked at her strange. The men. She didn’t like them. She was an innocent girl, but she knew what they were thinking.’
‘Did she have a sweetheart?’
Jellicoe looked closely at Bentham. He wondered if they were lovers.
‘None. She was a good girl, Chief Inspector. This was her first proper job. She didn’t want to make a bad impression. Cooking, cleaning. She was happy to be in such a nice place.’
Jellicoe nodded.
‘You left before her. What made you leave, Mr Bentham? What made you leave before Miss Tunstall.’
-
She looked hideous. Like an old crone. Like? She was an old crone. Barking mad. There was a glint in her eye. Aye, barking mad, all right. The way she spoke to Patty. Do this, don’t do that. It wasn’t right.
The day I left I went into that room. It was dark, as usual. Those curtains didn’t just stop the light coming in. They stopped life. Inside was the whisper of death, the smell of decay. I hated it. I hated her.
Here she was again. My god, couldn’t she see how she looked? What she was becoming? Like a monster. Or worse.
‘Tunstall, you haven’t been in the sitting room, have you?’
‘No, madam,’ said Patty.
&nbs
p; ‘Well don’t. Do you hear?’
She’s standing a foot away from you. Of course, she hears you. Old bag. Leave her alone.
‘And you, Bentham. Why haven’t you got a lock on this door? I asked you yesterday.’
‘He’s coming later this afternoon, madam.’
She’s mad. Look at her. What has she drawn round her eyes? Mascara? Looks like wall paint. You’d see less rouge on a harlot in Whitechapel. Mad.
‘Get your coat, Tunstall. I’m going to the park. Come with me. You, Bentham. Make sure there’s a lock on this door for when I return.’
‘I will, madam.’
They go out.
The door. It’s black now. It used to be a lovely rich oak colour. Old bag. Why does she want a lock on it?
The door.
The room is dark when I open the door. At least the lights still work. I see the chest that arrived the previous day. A wooden thing, like the pirates use. Doubt there’s much treasure in there. It’s padlocked.
Strange. Was that a noise?
I stay still. There it was again. Muffled.
I can hear blood rushing around my ears. My heart feels like it’s the noisiest thing in this room. The sound stops.
Dong!
Bloody clock nearly gave me a heart attack. Four o’clock. Where is that bloody locksmith.
Then I hear it again. Whatever it is, it’s coming from the chest. I go to it and looks down. At the side there is a grill. Can’t see what’s inside. The countess has left a key on the mantelpiece. I go over and then bring it to the padlock. I’m shaking like a leaf. The key fits and I hear the click of the padlock. I take off the padlock. The sound is more distinct now.
It’s like a…
-
‘A black cockerel, a white hen and what…?’ exclaimed Jellicoe.
Bentham was crying.
Jellicoe gave him a few minutes to recover himself.
‘I don’t know. Just bones. But there was tissue on it and blood, feathers. A small animal I suppose. I don’t know. How could there be a noise? I just shut the chest, put the padlock back on and ran out of the room. I wasn’t staying there a second longer.’
‘What about Tunstall? You just left her?’
‘No. Yes. I warned her. I left a note in her room. I told her to pack her things and go.’
‘Did you tell her why?’
‘Yes. I said the Countess was mad. That she was evil. I thought she would harm us. I mean, I told her to go. You must believe me.’
‘Did you go back?’
‘No, I went as far away from that evil bitch as I could.’
Bentham broke down again. This time Jellicoe left him. There was nothing to say to him. By escaping, he had, effectively, condemned the young maid to die. Jellicoe was certain of this. He was fairly sure that Bentham knew this, too. Whoever was killing these young women had visited the house. He, or they, were known to Countess Laskov.
It would take a day, but Bentham would be required to trawl his memory for faces that he would rather forget. Try and remember names. Fragments of conversation. Anything that could generate a line of inquiry.
Jellicoe looked into the eyes of Sergeant Wellbeloved. He could see the contempt there. Contempt for Bentham’s cowardice. Contempt for his weakness. He glared at the sergeant. This was not a time for coercion. He jerked his thumb at Wellbeloved. Outside he was saying.
In the corridor, Jellicoe whispered urgently.
‘I want names. If he can’t give us names, I want faces. I’ll get Watts down here. I don’t care if he spends the next twenty four hours drawing pictures. I want Bentham’s memory dredged. And what’s more, sergeant, I want it done right. Do you hear? He’s not under arrest. But hold him here. And tell no one who he is and what this is for.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Wellbeloved. He could have been talking to his teacher.
-
Jellicoe left the corridor and went in search of Rufus Watts. Frustratingly he was not in his office. He spotted a large, rather stupid-looking detective nearby and asked him for the whereabouts of the police artist.
A shrug of the shoulders confirmed that the detective in question was every bit as bovine as he looked. Muttering an oath under his breath, he walked along the corridor checking in each office for any sign of Watts. Finally, one uniformed officer provided a potential location. He was with the Commissioner.
Jellicoe bounded up the stairs and went to the Commissioner’s office. A middle aged woman was sitting on guard outside. His secretary. There was a marked coldness on her face that suggested that not only were visitors unwelcome, she positively hated them and their families.
‘Mrs Brook.’
‘Miss Brook,’ replied the guard dog.
Strange that you never married, thought Jellicoe fleetingly.
‘I urgently need to see Mr Watts. I gather he is with Commissioner Horwood.’
‘Does Mr Watts urgently need to see you?’
Jellicoe stared at the gorgon in horror. A slow smile crept across her face like a tiger contemplating its sleeping prey.
Which is about the moment that Jellicoe, for the first time in decades, lost his temper. Miss Brook was a bully. She had risen to the top of the secretarial tree within Scotland Yard. Commissioners came and went. She was immutable. With such longevity comes a certain standing, even if it’s only you who sees it. At that moment, Jellicoe only saw one thing.
Red.
He walked slowly towards her. By this stage Miss Brook was uncomfortably aware that her attempts at intimidation had, for the first time, gone sadly awry. The look on the Chief Inspector’s face suggested murder: if not the one he was investigating, then the one he was about to commit.
‘Tell the Commissioner I need Watts. And I need him now, please.’
Jellicoe’s manner of communication was a far cry from his usual brisk enunciation. This was a slow growl rather in the manner of a demonic German Shepherd. The manner of asking impressed Miss Brook sufficiently to leap up immediately and go to the door.
Jellicoe, working on the principle that a hot iron needs to be struck, followed her closely. She knocked on the door and entered when she heard the call.
‘My apologies for bothering you sir, Chief Inspector Jellicoe is rather desirous of seeing Mr Watts.’
Jellicoe walked into the room and saw Watts, Dr French and the Commissioner enjoying what looked like a whisky. A glance at the nearby cupboard confirmed the presence of a Glenlivet standing proudly atop some files no doubt containing details of various heinous crimes. Jellicoe was sure that the country would feel very reassured by the sedulousness of the nation’s law enforcement commander.
‘What do you want, Jellicoe?’ asked the former Brigadier-General, amused by the expression on his Chief Inspector’s face. ‘Come on, spit it out, man.’
28
‘Now, my dear, you,’ said Rufus Watts pointing dramatically at a slightly alarmed Bentham, ‘are going to describe to me all of the people you can remember. I will draw them on this beautiful piece of paper here and we will be great friends. Won’t we?’
Bentham wasn’t so sure he wanted to be. He gazed, awestruck, at the remarkable little man in front of him. Although he wasn’t an expert on the forces of law and order, he was pretty certain they did not wear red velvet jackets to work. He was equally sure that their hair was shorter than shoulder length. The cravat went well with the jacket, to be fair, but, once more, it struck Bentham that this was probably atypical for the police.
Watts placed a number of photographs of men and women on the table. There was a mixture of ages and genders.
‘Now, handsome, look at these pretty pictures and tell Rufus if any of these lovely men and women have features that resemble people you saw. As much as I would love one of these people to be a devil-worshipping fetishist, they are all policemen and their spouses. Which is not to say they don’t have esoteric interests, it’s just highly unlikely if I know the breed. And I do. Look at the hair, look at the n
oses, look at the shapes of their faces. Think of it as a jigsaw puzzle that we’re going to piece together. It’s going to be fun.’
To reassure the perspiring Bentham, Watts gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
‘There, there. It’s time to make Rufus a happy boy.’
Watts arranged himself into a comfortable position and studied the former butler as he went through the photographs.
‘Is this helpful?’
‘A little, sir,’ responded Bentham. ‘It wasn’t always easy to see the people’s faces when they arrived. Many wore hats. One of them even looked a little like you, sir.’
‘Did they?’ said Watts with a smile. ‘Handsome and well-dressed I’ll be bound.’
Bentham seemed to be relaxing now and he allowed himself a smile.
‘Yes, sir. Of course, he had spectacles.’
‘Really? Did they look like these?’
Watts reached behind him and put on a pair of glasses. Bentham looked at Watts for a moment. A trace of nervousness reappeared on his face.
‘Yes, a little like that, sir.’
‘Excellent, Bentham. I’ll make a start while you are perusing the other pictures. Don’t be afraid to lift them either if you need a closer inspection. And remember - you can combine several pictures into one face.’
-
Six hours later, a relieved Bentham was escorted from the office of the police artist. Watts looked down at the pictures he’d created from the descriptions. He picked up the first and examined it. A smile broke out over his face and he began to chuckle. He shook his head at the absurdity of it all.
Watts spent the next hour tidying up the drawings. Any stray marks were erased. The value of the shadows was raised or lowered in accordance with how it related to the overall harmony of the picture. He hated the meaningless jargon of modern art. Every time he created a piece of art, for his work was art, he started with one thought in mind. How would Whistler do this? What he sought was not mechanical accuracy, although he accepted this was the objective required of him by his colleagues. Watts was searching for something else.
That something else was nothing less than the inner life of the subject he was drawing.