by Simon Clark
They quickly lowered themselves down from the boulder. The water had, indeed, retreated a few yards, and they soon reached higher ground. Soon they were walking along the path that Thomas had followed earlier. Thomas saw a horse tethered to a tree.
Jo patted the horse’s nose affectionately. ‘Mr Bonaparte, this is Thomas Lloyd. He’s come all the way from London. Say hello to Thomas.’ The horse made a snuffling sound.
‘Jo, it was a pleasure to meet you.’ Before he could offer to help her onto the horse she energetically swung herself up onto its back. He noticed that she did not ride side-saddle; hence the short kilt and trousers. ‘And thank you for saving me from getting my feet wet.’
‘You’d have suffered more than sodden feet. The currents are vicious.’
Thomas recalled the incident where he almost drowned last week, although said nothing of it. He couldn’t have told her even if he’d wanted to. She’d slipped the reins from the branch and abruptly galloped away.
She called back over her shoulder, ‘Thomas! We shall meet again!’
Thomas made his way back to the king’s palace. The two-storey building could easily have been the residence of a country squire. The house appeared to be roomy, comfortable and not particularly ostentatious. Thomas hadn’t been in the house; instead leaving Abberline to enter alone in order to speak with the ruler of this little kingdom. Thomas waited on the driveway. The wait didn’t seem a long one; in fact, he rather lost track of time. He found himself replaying the moments spent with the lady down on the beach. He recalled the tone of her voice – the music and laughter that it contained, and the way she kept her eyes so attentively on his face. Was she one of these modern women that he’d read about?
‘Thomas?’
‘Hmm?’
‘A penny for your thoughts.’
‘I beg your pardon, Inspector. My mind was elsewhere.’
‘A happy elsewhere, I dare say. You were smiling.’
‘Was I?’ Thomas felt his face grow warm. He was blushing. Abberline noticed yet said nothing, so Thomas asked if Abberline’s meeting with the king went well.
‘It was an interesting one. I’ll tell you about it later. For now, though, we need to find our rooms.’
‘Aren’t we staying in the palace?’
‘Palace?’ Abberline smiled, amused. ‘A fancy name for that house. No, we’ve been allocated Samarkand Cottage that lies, according to the butler, along that path to our left.’
The path took them through woodland. On the way, they passed by several small cottages. Smoke rose from chimneys. Through the windows of the dwellings figures could be glimpsed, sitting at desks as they worked at something or other. Though what exactly, Thomas couldn’t be sure. These people must be the free thinkers and inventors and whatnot that Jo had spoken about: the geniuses that lived here at the invitation of the king.
Abberline checked the cottages’ names: ‘Nazareth, Athens, Peru, Siam. Ah, here’s Samarkand.’ He pushed open a gate that led into a small garden.
‘The cottage does look a pleasant one.’
‘I’m sure it will suit us, Thomas. The king has allocated another cottage for my colleagues. More detectives will be arriving from Scotland Yard in a day or two.’
‘There are no locks on the doors.’
‘There is no crime here, so I’m told.’
Thomas opened the door. ‘Only murder.’
‘Our luggage should have been delivered already. We eat in the palace refectory with our neighbours at six. There’s bread and cheese to keep us going until then. Also, some letters have arrived for me. They should have been left here, too.’
The front door opened directly into a kitchen. The place had a decidedly rustic feel.
Thomas raised a cloth from the table. ‘Here’s the bread and cheese. There’s a bottle of beer, too.’
‘That looks most welcome.’ Abberline opened doors off from the kitchen. ‘The bedrooms. Our cases are here.’
‘And your letters.’ Thomas handed Abberline two envelopes.
‘Ah, one from my wife. She promised to let me know when she arrived at her cousin’s.’ He looked at a mark by the stamp. ‘An Eastbourne postmark; it seems she’s already there. And …’ His voice faded as he stared at the second envelope. The man’s expression suggested he expected a snake’s head to dart from the envelope to sink its fangs into his hand. ‘Oh … I know who this is from.’ With great care he opened the envelope, removed the slip of paper, and then read aloud: ‘Dear Inspector, you lord of failure. Two years ago I led you a merry dance through Whitechapel. I chopped them ladies. I left them with their innards on the outward side of their pretty skins. You tried to catch me. You failed, you lord of failure. I walked past you in the street. I sat in a coffee shop close enough for you to touch me. But, my poor lad, you didn’t know that I was the Whitechapel murderer, did you now? Well, boss, I’m back. Yours truly from the heat of hell, Jack the Ripper.’
They ate the bread and cheese at the kitchen table in the cottage known as Samarkand. Abberline declined the beer, choosing water instead. Thomas Lloyd did the same.
‘Red cheese. My favourite.’ Abberline popped the last fragment of Cheddar into his mouth. ‘There’s some bread left, if you’re still hungry?’
‘I’ve had plenty, thank you.’ Thomas’s gaze strayed to the letter addressed to Abberline on the mantelpiece. ‘Genuine, you think?’
‘From Mr Jack the Ripper? I don’t know.’
‘Does the writing match the other letters supposedly written by the Ripper?’
‘Hundreds of hoax letters arrived during the investigation and afterwards. I’ve never seen the British public so agitated, or excited, by murder before or since.’ Abberline dabbed his mouth with a napkin. ‘There’s a very large box at Scotland Yard full to the brim with letters claiming to be from Jack the Ripper.’
‘I wonder how the letter writer knew you’d be here. After all, it is addressed to “Inspector Abberline, The Palace, Faxfleet”.’
‘That’s a mystery easily solved.’
‘Oh?’
‘There was a report in the Star, saying that I would be despatched here to investigate a death. If the writer of that letter read the newspaper then he, or she, knew where I’d be right now.’ Abberline reached for his jacket. ‘And the reason I’m here is to find a murderer, which is what I intend to do.’
‘You will take the letter seriously?’
‘It’s probably some tomfoolery by someone who should know better.’
‘What if it is from the Ripper? What if he starts killing again?’
‘Rest assured, Thomas. I’ll make a copy of the letter and send it to my superiors.’
‘What do you intend to do first?’
‘I’ll visit the brother of the deceased. He lives at Camelot House, which, I’ve been told, is nearby.’
‘I have to admit to knowing very little about the case. All I know is that a man was killed by an arrow while climbing a tree.’
‘Then you don’t know that an animal was found nearby?’ Abberline glanced at Thomas. ‘The creature had the body of a wolf, the legs of a crocodile, and the wings of an eagle.’
Abberline read from a sheet of paper as he walked along a path. Thomas burned with curiosity. He wanted to ask about the creature with the eagle wings, the wolf body and the legs of a crocodile. However, he knew better than to interrupt Abberline when he was reading through case notes, which would, likely as not, have been sent to him by the local police who’d first investigated the case. They soon arrived at a small house; the sign on the gate read ‘Camelot House’. Abberline walked up the garden path and tapped on the front door. There was no answer. Thomas looked up at the bedroom windows in case a face should be looking out. Abberline knocked yet again.
Thomas said, ‘Looks as if no one’s home.’
A high voice came from behind them. ‘Good day, gentlemen. How may I help you?’
Thomas turned towards the voice. An elderly man sto
od there. He was very small, bright eyed, and reminded Thomas of a pixie from a children’s storybook. He held, in both hands, a two-headed rabbit. The animal was clearly stuffed. Thomas looked again, and realized that the twin-headed creature was, in fact, a hare.
Abberline spoke briskly, ‘Good afternoon. My name is Abberline. I’m an inspector from Scotland Yard. I’m here to investigate the death of Mr Benedict Feasby.’
‘Benedict is my brother. Sorry … was my brother.’
‘My condolences, sir, on your loss.’ Abberline nodded in Thomas’s direction. ‘This is Mr Lloyd. He’ll be accompanying me for the duration of the case.’
‘I see. I see. You must forgive me for not shaking your hands. I have been massaging preservative salts into this fellow’s pelt – dear old Split-Hares. He’d begun to moult, dreadful mess, fur all over the rugs. My brother likes to keep a clean home. Oh dear, there I go again. He’s dead, isn’t he, my dear brother? I couldn’t use my taxidermy skills on Benedict. The authorities won’t let me. In fact, the local detectives became quite agitated when I said I’d like to preserve my brother and sit him on a chair in the kitchen.’
‘Mr Feasby,’ Abberline said. ‘May we step inside and have a chat with you?’
‘Of course, of course. This way, sirs. I’ll put Split-Hares on his pedestal. He never had two heads when he was alive, of course. My brother and I acquired two dead hares. We split them down the middle from neck to bobtail. Benedict stitched the two halves together. I’ve never known a man so adroit with a needle. This way.’ He opened the door. ‘Don’t be alarmed by my little zoo.’
They followed Feasby into a parlour. He stood the two-headed animal on a pedestal. A brass plaque fixed to the front of the pedestal read: GOD DOES NOT SPLIT-HARES. Thomas’s nose prickled. The place smelt strongly of chemicals – no doubt substances that preserved this array of strange creatures. Straightaway, he saw a large animal in the corner of the room. This was an absolute monstrosity. Quite alarming, really. Possessing the body of a wolf, the legs of a crocodile, wings of an eagle, and very large teeth, it would have struck fear into children. Most disturbing of all were its blue eyes. Thomas realized that glass eyes, of the kind used to replace diseased or injured human eyes, had been inserted into the wolf’s skull in order to create an even more disturbing creature. A kind of zoological Frankenstein monster. Around the wolf’s neck was a dog collar on which was printed a name: Sir Terror.
When Thomas looked back at William Feasby, he found himself wondering what kind of man rearranged animal body parts into strange creatures. Abberline glanced at the animals. However, he didn’t let them distract him from his purpose. As soon as Feasby invited them to sit down, Abberline began.
‘You are William Feasby. You have lived here on the island with your brother for how long?’
‘Benedict is – was – my twin brother. We were identical. Every time I look in the mirror I see him. We have lived on Faxfleet for eighteen years.’
‘Your late brother was eighty-one years of age when he died?’
‘Yes, Inspector.’
‘This may sound a blunt question, sir. I do have to ask it. Why was your brother, a man of over eighty, climbing a tree?’
‘We study nature. My brother visits certain trees every morning to count birds’ eggs and chicks in their nests. We believe that the world of human beings is inextricably woven into the animal world. We both love animals. In fact, my brother and I have been vegetarians since the age of seven.’
Thomas knew that, normally, he should not question people in connection with a crime that Abberline investigated (Thomas was present to observe and write about the cases for his newspaper); however, curiosity got the better of him. ‘Why do you make these … these alterations to animals?’
The pixie-like man gave a sudden grin. ‘We travel the length and breadth of Britain, giving talks and magic lantern shows; we hope to educate the public about the importance of animal welfare, and the preservation of species in the wild.’
‘Yes, but the purpose of the wolf-beast, the one you call Sir Terror?’
‘Mr Lloyd, not a single person would attend one of our lectures if all we did was talk. No, sir. We bring along our bizarre circus of beasts. When we do, people rush to our talks by the hundred.’
Abberline nodded. ‘You use these stuffed creatures to draw attention to your work.’
‘These are our bait. They entice people in to hear us talk about the wonders of nature.’
‘You no doubt saw newspaper accounts of your brother’s death?’
‘Yes, I did. I understand that newspapers all over Britain printed what had happened to Benedict. His passing drew a lot of attention.’
‘The stuffed piece that you call Sir Terror was found in the tree that Mr Feasby had climbed. It was that strange aspect of the case, and the fact that your brother was killed by an arrow fired from a bow, that generated so much interest.’
‘Yes, I have the newspaper cuttings here.’ Feasby opened a drawer; inside were neatly cut out oblongs of newspaper that bore pictures of the beast that Thomas saw snarling silently from the corner of the room.
Abberline nodded. ‘You employ these striking exhibits to draw attention to your lectures, which suggests to me that the killer of your brother used the wolf creature to draw the public’s attention to the murder.’
‘Goodness me. Why would a murderer do that, sir?’
‘Forgive me for speaking plainly, Mr Feasby, but if your brother had been murdered with a knife or a hammer, then the London newspapers would probably not have reported his death at all.’
‘You mean the killer intended to make this a famous crime? He wanted the world to know about it?’
‘It appears so. Did your brother have enemies?’
‘Not one. He was a happy soul. He devoted his life to the glories of the animal kingdom.’
‘Do you, yourself, have enemies? After all, you say you look exactly like Mr Benedict Feasby.’
‘Do you believe that the killer mistook my Benedict for me? Goodness. But I have no enemies, either.’ The man’s eyes were wide with surprise. ‘We keep ourselves to ourselves. We make our exhibits. We study this island’s creatures. We have detailed records of species, feeding habits and animal behaviour. Theirs is a rich and complex world, sir.’
Once again, Thomas felt compelled to ask a question. ‘You are here at King Ludwig’s invitation?’
‘Yes, Mr Lloyd.’
‘Which means he provides this house at no cost to you.’
For the first time, a flash of anger made the pixie-like man stiffen his backbone and sit up straight. ‘Indeed. Indeed! But accommodation in exchange for our research and studies here. The king shares our interest in animals. We earn the right to be on this island. We are no lazy shirkers, sir – no, we are not.’ He caught sight of his reflection in a wall mirror. ‘Isn’t that right, Benedict? You tell the gentlemen that we work hard here on … oh … I’m sorry. I quite forgot. For a moment, I thought I saw my twin brother.’ He sighed. ‘I am so sorry … what must you think of me? When I saw his … my face … oh …’ He lowered his head and wept.
That evening Thomas Lloyd and Inspector Abberline walked through the trees to the house known locally as The Palace. They’d been invited to eat dinner in the company of the king and the other residents of this eccentric little kingdom.
A footman led them to the refectory at the back of the house. This large hall served as the dining room. A table stood at one end of the room. Eight other tables had been set out at an angle from that table as if to echo the pattern of the spokes of a wheel. In that way, everyone could see the people sitting at the head table. Thomas saw that this seating arrangement also removed any necessity for a guest to sit with their back to the king. Thomas presumed that the large, high-backed dining chair, bearing a colourful crest, was the king’s seat. The refectory quickly filled with people: perhaps around thirty men and women. Footmen lit candles on the tables. All this appeared rout
ine for the diners. They nodded to each other, some chatted. A footman showed Thomas and Inspector Abberline to their table. A man of sixty or so already sat there. Standing politely, he bowed as Thomas and Abberline went to their chairs.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he rumbled in a deep voice. ‘I am Professor Giddings.’
Thomas and Abberline shook the man’s hand and gave them their names.
‘Ah. Inspector Abberline.’ The professor smoothed down his beard with his hand. ‘You are here about poor Feasby. I hope you catch the devil that killed him. The murderer has been terrorizing the island.’
‘Oh?’ Abberline raised his eyebrows. ‘I was given to understand that one crime had been committed? The homicide of Mr Benedict Feasby?’
‘I wrote to Scotland Yard, sir. There have been other incidents. Why, just days ago, the scoundrel fired bullets through my study window. Very nearly killed my wife and I.’
‘I see. Then I’d like to –’ Abberline didn’t finish the sentence.
A footman called out, ‘Be upstanding for King Ludwig III of Faxfleet.’
Everyone stood. Nobody spoke or moved as the king entered the refectory. Thomas had expected robes, a crown and courtiers. However, a man wearing conventional evening dress walked with due dignity to the top table and sat down in the chair that bore the royal crest. Already standing at the top table was a silver-haired man wearing a red sash across his chest. Thomas judged the king to be perhaps fifty years of age. His grey hair was thinning at the top of his head, and his manner suggested a rather modest authority, which could have been that of a country squire. There certainly seemed to be nothing remarkable about the monarch of this tiny kingdom. King Ludwig nodded at his fellow diners.
The footman barked, ‘Please be seated.’
Chair legs scraped across the stone floor as the diners sat back down again. The king poured himself a glass of water, gestured to footmen to begin serving the first course, and then he began to converse with the man in the red sash. The other diners chatted; cutlery clinked as they cut bread from loaves set out in front of them. A decidedly relaxed atmosphere pervaded the room.