Inspector Abberline and the Just King

by Simon Clark

  ‘Oh … I see, thank you.’ Even though Thomas had misunderstood, and now he realized there was no gold pin hiding beneath the lapel, he still found himself asking, ‘There is nothing else you need to tell me?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’ The man smiled. ‘Other than have a pleasant evening, sir.’

  Thomas stepped out into the busy street. Every man who passed by seemed to shoot a knowing glance in his direction. So, how many people in this great city wore a concealed gold pin? Goodness knows. Thomas suspected that there was much more to this than met the eye. Fascinating times lay ahead; he was sure of it.

  The next day a telegram arrived at Thomas Lloyd’s home. The message, from Inspector Abberline, requested his presence at Scotland Yard. The telegram closed with the word URGENT – a word guaranteed to make Thomas’s flesh tingle with excitement.

  Abberline had, of course, now seen the letter from Thomas, saying that he’d had a change of heart and would be joining him on future investigations. Abberline, a generally undemonstrative man, had been visibly pleased. He’d warmly shaken Thomas by the hand and thanked him. After that, nothing more had been said. Perhaps Abberline considered Thomas’s original decision to return to general newspaper work had been something of an aberration brought on by the shock of almost drowning in the canal. Thomas couldn’t reveal the real reason, of course. The conversation with the aristocratic stranger in the carriage, the gift of the gold pin, and the Prime Minister’s letter would have to remain secret. For now.

  Thomas arrived at the police headquarters at nine o’clock. A constable took Thomas to a room bleakly furnished with a single chair and a table. Abberline stood at one end of the room. He glared at a large man of around forty with a high, glistening forehead. The stranger’s cold eyes clearly signalled he resented being here, and would have gladly thrown a punch at Abberline if it wasn’t for the fact his wrists were held together by manacles.

  ‘Ah, Thomas, good morning,’ Abberline said. ‘You are just in time to hear Mr Turton confess to murder.’

  ‘I shall do no such blasted thing, Abberline,’ the man snarled. ‘And you best wish with all your damned heart that our paths never cross at night. Cos you’ll regret putting me in irons, you devil.’

  Inspector Abberline’s eyes were rarely harsh. Today, however, those brown eyes of his were as sharp as knife-blades. His furious glare even made this brute flinch.

  Abberline spoke firmly. ‘You stabbed the gentleman. You took his watch, his wallet and gold signet ring, which is engraved with his initials, RWF.’

  ‘Have you found them in my house? No, sir, you have not!’

  ‘I know you, Turton. I’ve had dealings with you before. You attack men and women, and you take their possessions when they’re lying helpless on the ground.’

  ‘You’ve arrested me three times before, Abberline. But you aren’t a good enough copper to get me convicted. I always walk free from court.’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘I’ll be out of this building by tonight. You, yourself, have no evidence, Mr Policeman.’ He grinned, exposing black teeth. ‘You’ve got nothing to fix that killing on me.’

  ‘You had blood on your hands.’

  ‘I helped a poor little doggy with a cut leg. Got blood all over these two paws of mine.’ He held up the chained hands. ‘Doggy blood, not some gent’s red stuff. Ha.’

  ‘It is Mr Foster’s blood.’

  ‘You know that there’s no way of telling if it was Foster’s blood or the little pup’s. All blood’s red. Even fish blood.’

  ‘I know you stabbed him to death.’ Abberline pulled an envelope from his pocket. ‘Because here is the proof. Photographic evidence, Mr Turton. Incontrovertible proof.’

  The thug blinked when he saw the envelope. His aggressive manner abruptly changed to one of nervousness.

  ‘What’s this, Abberline?’

  ‘I’m going to show you. But first there is something important you should know. Something that will shock you.’

  ‘Like what?’ Turton had become defensive. ‘What you got there, you stinking dog?’

  Thomas realized that Turton no longer tried to dominate the room with his loud bluster.

  Abberline placed the envelope down on the table. ‘Do you read the scientific journals?’

  ‘Ha, I’d use them to wipe that smile off your damn face.’

  ‘Recently, there have been reports in scientific publications that describe how it’s possible to photograph the eyes of a murder victim.’

  ‘What’s the point of that?’

  ‘Photographs of the cadaver’s pupil reveal the last thing they saw. The image is captured in the eye and remains there for days afterwards. Of course, the last thing a murder victim sees is the person who killed them.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Mr Turton, I will show you a photograph of Mr Foster’s eye. When I do, tell me whose image is captured within the pupil of the eye.’

  ‘No, Abberline. No …’ Turton’s chest expanded and shrank in quite an extraordinary way as he began to pant with alarm. ‘This is more witchery than science. How can a picture of a face be fixed in a dead man’s eye?’

  ‘Images are captured by a camera, aren’t they?’

  Abberline opened the envelope and removed a small square of card, which he held out so the man could see it. Turton’s eyes bulged as he stared at the photograph. Thomas saw that the picture was of an eye. In the black pupil of that eye was the image of a face.

  ‘How did you do that?’ Turton spluttered.

  ‘You see the photograph of an eye?’ Abberline asked calmly. ‘Whose face do you see in the eye of the dead man?’

  ‘That’s my face! I see myself!’

  ‘So, you admit that you recognize yourself in the pupil of the late Mr Foster’s eye?’

  ‘Witchcraft, blast you! That ain’t science.’

  ‘Do you now confess that you stabbed Mr Foster and stole his possessions?’

  The thug raised his manacled hands and pressed his fingers to his lips. He appeared to be trying to stop the words he felt compelled to say from spilling out.

  ‘Admit you killed him, Turton. I have witnesses that say you stood next to Mr Foster in the Black Horse tavern. One will testify he saw you stare at Foster’s signet ring: a large gold ring, extremely valuable, worth a year’s wages to an honest working man.’ Abberline touched the picture. ‘And here is the photograph I had taken of the dead man’s eye. It shows your face embedded there in the pupil. Do you confess?’

  Turton had filled up with so much emotional pressure that it seemed he would explode violently at any second. Nevertheless, he kept his fingers pressed hard to his lips, stopping any confession from coming out.

  Abberline nodded. ‘Very well. We move to the next stage of the investigation. Mr Foster’s body lies on a slab in the next room. You will be taken in there. A doctor will then attach cables to the corpse. After that, electricity will be fired into the body.’

  Turton’s eyes had become bloodshot from sheer terror. Veins throbbed in his temples. His eyes began to dart in panic – the beast caught in a trap.

  Abberline continued, ‘Scientists have proved that a corpse can be brought back to life when a charge of electricity is delivered to the flesh. We have done this many times before with murder victims. The corpse returns to life just long enough to point at the person who killed them and say, “That is the man who murdered me. He is the one.” What image does that put into your mind, Turton? Can you visualize the naked corpse as it convulses before sitting upright, and fixing its dead eyes on the killer?’ Abberline moved quickly. Grasping Turton by the arm, he called out, ‘Mr Lloyd, help me take Mr Turton to the next room. We must act quickly while the corpse is still fresh.’

  Turton let out a howl of terror. ‘What be I to do? What be I to do? I ain’t got the stomach to see the dead brought back to life!’

  ‘Don’t fret, Mr Turton.’ Abberline dragged him towards the door. ‘It will
be over in a few minutes. Though prepare yourself for the sensation of the dead man running his fingers over your face. They do that, you know? Murder victims want to feel the face of the man who took their life.’

  ‘Oh, please, sir, Mr Abberline. Don’t do this to me. I confess. I did it! I stabbed the man. I took his ring, and his wallet, and his watch!’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘At the home of my uncle. 20 Furlow Avenue. That’s the truth. You’ll find the knife wrapped in a bloody rag. It’s what I used. So help me. I’m telling the truth!’

  ‘I’ll prepare a written confession,’ Abberline told him. ‘You shall sign it.’

  ‘That I will, sir. Gladly. Please, sir, do not bring the dead man back to life.’

  Abberline tapped on the door. Instantly, it opened to admit a pair of towering men in uniform. To Thomas, these constables seemed as tall as oak trees, just as strong too.

  ‘Constables,’ Abberline began, ‘put Mr Turton back in his cell.’

  The constables hauled away the trembling, sobbing man.

  After they’d gone, Thomas Lloyd stared in astonishment at Abberline. ‘The eyes of the dead containing images of murderers? Resurrecting corpses with electricity? Surely this isn’t possible?’

  Abberline allowed himself a grim smile. ‘It’s absolutely im-possible.’

  ‘The photograph?

  ‘I asked the police photographer to concoct the image. He added a small photograph of Turton’s face to the enlarged photograph of what is, I admit, my eye. The phrase is “superimposed”, I believe.’

  ‘A trick picture?’

  Abberline nodded. ‘I trusted the photograph to loosen the man’s tongue. It turned out I had to invent the story of bringing the dead back to life as a last resort.’

  ‘You used blatant trickery to extract a confession?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was that necessary? After all, you have witnesses that place Turton in the public house on the night of the killing.’

  ‘I have only one witness. An unreliable one, who couldn’t remember if he saw Turton last night or the night before. The description given was enough to suggest that Turton had been in the Black Horse at some point recently. But that would be insufficient for a conviction. Therefore, I pretended that detectives have new techniques that will identify a killer.’

  Thomas felt a good deal of indignation. ‘Is that kind of deception right and proper? You lied to the man. You frightened him into believing that a corpse would identify him as the killer.’

  ‘Turton has violently robbed people in the past. Always there has been insufficient evidence – the case against him breaks down and he walks free. As from now, that thug is no longer a danger to the public.’

  ‘He will hang.’

  ‘Yes, he’ll go to the gallows.’

  ‘All because of the trick you played on him? Won’t that trouble your conscience?’

  ‘It would, if Turton is executed purely because of his signed confession. But remember, he has told us where he’s hidden the murder weapon, along with his victim’s possessions. They’ll be identified as belonging to Mr Foster by his widow. Won’t that be sufficient evidence to prove that Turton killed the man and stole from him?’

  ‘Yes, but hardly orthodox detective work, is it?’

  ‘I agree, friend Thomas.’ Abberline’s smile was a warm one. ‘But until science can actually help a murder victim speak again I’ll have to rely on my wits to ensure that killers are brought to justice.’

  ‘Then you’ll permit me to write a newspaper story about what just took place?’

  ‘Ha, the photograph and my tale of resurrecting the dead? Absolutely not, Thomas.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I might have to use that little story again on another suspect.’

  ‘It looks as if my book about you will be a very slim one.’

  ‘A book? What’s all this about a book, Thomas?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. However, you sent me a telegram, saying you wanted to see me?’

  ‘Yes. I shall be going on a trip. Would you like to accompany me? That is, if you haven’t change your mind again about shadowing me?’

  ‘No, I haven’t changed my mind, Inspector, so where do we go?’

  ‘To the Kingdom of Faxfleet.’

  ‘Faxfleet? I’ve never heard of the country. Where on earth is it?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough, Thomas. Now, if you’ll give me a few minutes, I’ll write out Turton’s confession. Then we shall have the satisfaction of watching him sign it.’

  The hour or so following Turton’s dramatic confession became something of a rush. Abberline told Thomas to meet him at King’s Cross Station at noon. Their train left at twenty minutes past twelve. Thomas sent a telegram to his editor, explaining that he was embarking on a new case with Abberline, and that stories for the newspaper would follow soon. After that, he returned home to pack a few essentials, including a fistful of fresh reporters’ notebooks and a dozen new pencils. Mrs Cherryhome saw it as her Christian duty to provide for her lodgers. She parcelled up a loaf of just-baked bread, a thick slice of Cheddar cheese, and a wedge of plum cake.

  ‘Mr Lloyd, just you remember that it was only last week when you nearly drowned in that dreadful canal.’

  Thomas smiled. ‘The memory is still shudderingly vivid in my memory, Mrs Cherryhome.’

  ‘Be sure to eat this on your journey. You still need to restore your strength.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Cherryhome, I will. I always enjoy your cake.’

  She fussed around him as he put on his coat in the hallway. Her pink cheeks quivered with her customary anxiety when one of her tenants was leaving her safe nest for a while.

  ‘Mr Thomas, where are you going exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know, other than it’s called the Kingdom of Faxfleet.’

  ‘Faxfleet? It sounds like it might be in Denmark or some such godless place.’

  ‘Inspector Abberline didn’t have time to tell me where it is. One of his prisoners, who’d just confessed to murder, tried to do away with himself.’

  ‘Oh, goodness gracious.’

  ‘Tried to hang himself with his own bootlace.’

  ‘What a world we live in.’

  ‘He’ll live – until the hangman does a proper job of it.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Lloyd. I shall dream of ropes and gibbets tonight. Now, you take care. Watch out for those folk overseas. I hear they carry Englishmen off to work underground in coal mines where they’re never seen again.’

  ‘I shall be on my guard, Mrs Cherryhome.’

  ‘Take a cup of hot brandy at bedtime. It’ll protect your stomach from foreign water.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Cherryhome, much obliged for the food. Take care.’

  At precisely 12.20 the express train pulled out of King’s Cross Station. The powerful locomotive released an immense gush of smoke. The couplings on the carriages groaned and clanked as the engine pulled them northward.

  Abberline settled into his seat opposite Thomas. ‘We change trains at Doncaster for Hull. After that, we take a boat to the Kingdom of Faxfleet.’

  ‘So, we’ll cross the North Sea to the Continent?’

  ‘Hardly that.’ Abberline appeared amused. ‘The boat will take us upriver from the city.’

  ‘Now I really am baffled, Inspector. You’re saying there is another kingdom in the north of England?’

  ‘The Kingdom of Faxfleet is two miles long and a mile wide. The nation has a population of two hundred and eight people, and is ruled over by King Ludwig III.’

  Thomas laughed. ‘Then the kingdom is nothing more than a whimsy? A joke?’

  ‘Oh, it’s real enough.’

  ‘You’re saying it’s an independent nation, one entirely separate from Great Britain?’

  ‘The Kingdom of Faxfleet exists as long as our own monarch tolerates it. Just over a hundred years ago King George III granted sovereignty of the island to a certain Ludwig Smith. King George also
gave Smith the right to call himself a king and to govern the inhabitants of Faxfleet.’

  ‘It all sounds rather peculiar.’

  ‘I shan’t disagree.’ Abberline chuckled. ‘I’ve been reading about the place. It seems that King George bestowed a kingship on Ludwig Smith after the pair had drunk an enormous quantity of Yorkshire ale. In later years, successive British monarchs were amused by the Kingdom of Faxfleet, and Ludwig Smith. His descendants were allowed to keep the title of King and to continue to rule their island in the River Humber.’

  ‘So, we are on our way to the Kingdom of Faxfleet, which begs the question: why are we going?’

  ‘Scotland Yard has been asked for their help. A murder has taken place on the island, and there have been other attempts to frighten the islanders, and perhaps even kill them.’

  ‘Does your jurisdiction as a Scotland Yard detective enable you to operate legally there?’

  ‘I have been invited by none other than King Ludwig III himself.’ Abberline gazed out of the window for a moment. Redbrick houses had given away to green fields where cows grazed. ‘All this business about a king ruling a little island in an English river is nonsense, of course, but a murder had been committed, which is a very serious business. What’s more, I understand that certain members of our own royal family are interested in this case, and want the murderer arrested as quickly as possible. Now … did you say earlier that you are collecting the stories you have written about me into a book?’

  Thomas told Abberline what the owners of the newspaper he worked for intended. He found it impossible to disguise his annoyance that he would receive no royalties, which, if they had been paid, would have allowed him to visit his fiancée in Ceylon. Abberline was sympathetic. He expressed his hope that Thomas wouldn’t be separated from Emma Bright for much longer. After chatting for a while, Abberline took out his case papers in order to study them before their arrival. Thomas balanced his briefcase on his lap, placed a sheet of paper on its flat surface, unscrewed the top from his pen and began to write.