by Simon Clark
Thomas made one last forlorn attempt to reveal what made his conscience burn so uncomfortably. ‘The pin. It’s important.’
‘It is, my friend. And thank you for reminding me that I shouldn’t rush off without mentioning something vital. I’d like you to do something for me.’
‘Of course.’
‘Don’t mention the gold pin to anyone.’
Thomas felt a thrill of surprise run through him. Does Abberline know that I have a pin, too? ‘Of course, Inspector. I promise to tell no one.’
‘Ah, excellent. Though I do want you to reveal its existence to one person. I’d like you to take it to William Feasby and ask him if he recognizes it. But make the man swear that he won’t tell anyone else about the pin.’
‘Of course, but why?’
‘That little pin could be the dynamite that blows open the case. We should keep its existence secret for now, because we might need an element of surprise when we question our suspect – whoever that might be.’
‘You can trust me, sir.’
‘I know I can, Thomas. I trust you with my life.’ He checked his watch. ‘I must hurry. Cheerio, and take care!’ With that, Abberline rushed out of the cottage. He held onto his hat with one hand; his coat tails were flapping.
Thomas called after him: ‘Catch him, Inspector. Catch the Ripper.’
Fifteen minutes later, Thomas knocked on the door of the cottage that housed the menagerie of stuffed animals. The door opened to reveal William Feasby, the pixie-like man with the bright, darting eyes. Thomas noted the man’s fingertips were blue. Sharp chemical odours spilled from the interior of the cottage to prickle Thomas’s nose.
‘Mr Feasby. May I have a word with you?’
‘Come in, Mr Lloyd, come in!’ The man spoke in a lively, good-humoured way. ‘Find yourself a perch on the sofa there. Forgive me, I must keep working, otherwise my brush will dry.’
Thomas sat down on the sofa. Everywhere in the room there were stuffed animals. The creatures had been moulded in such a way that they took on the form of monsters or animal men. In one corner was the monkey that resembled a famous archbishop. Nearby was the monstrosity called Sir Terror. A wolf’s body had been adorned with eagle wings; its legs replaced with crocodile limbs, and its eyes, made of glass, resembled those of a man. Thomas knew the creature was nothing more than dead skin, fur and modeller’s wire – nevertheless, the vicious-looking Sir Terror sent shivers down his spine.
William Feasby sat down at the table. Immediately in front of him was a line of hens’ eggs in little wire holders. Just beyond the eggs, a large free-standing mirror had been placed on the table. The looking-glass reflected William Feasby’s face back at him. The man picked up an artist’s brush and continued his work, painting the eggs a bright shade of blue.
Feasby explained: ‘I am preparing these eggs for a tableau, which I will take on my next lecture tour. I shall preserve several crows, and replace their heads with dolls’ heads of men and women. I wish to present them as angels of the devil that lay eggs containing the evils that plague our world – ignorance, hunger, war, injustice.’
‘I see,’ Thomas said, though in reality he didn’t completely understand the metaphor of satanic angels with the bodies of birds and the heads of people. ‘The public will be astonished to see what you are creating.’
‘Astonished? Yes, I believe so. It’s my most sincere hope, moreover, that my audience will have their minds stimulated to the extent that they ask these questions: why is there hunger, why is there war, why is there injustice?’ He dabbed blue paint on the next egg. ‘I must continue the work my brother and I started when we were still boys.’ He gazed into the mirror, smiling. ‘Isn’t that so, Benedict?’
‘Mr Feasby?’
‘Oh, you will think I am quite capsized in the head. Barmy. Potty. Fit for the madhouse.’ William Feasby chuckled as he gazed into the mirror, nodding as if agreeing with a comment he’d just heard. His expression became serious all of a sudden and he sighed. ‘No, I’m not insane. I’m bereaved, sir, forlorn. And feeling the burden of loneliness – something I never experienced before my brother’s death. But now …’ He sighed again as he gazed at his reflection. ‘You will be wondering about the placing of the mirror like so?’
‘No, sir. Where you stand a mirror is your prerogative.’
‘Benedict and I were twins. Identical twins. Nobody could tell us apart. Oh, the jokes we’d play when we were younger on our friends and family, pretending to be each other. We quite bamboozled folk with our capering.’ He reached out to lightly touch the reflection on its cheek. ‘I loved my brother, bless his soul. So you see the purpose of this mirror, Mr Lloyd? We used to work like this, facing one another across the table. Now, even though he is dead and lying in his grave, I still can. I look at that reflection and tell myself it is my dear Benedict. See, he is alive there in front of me.’ William Feasby smiled at the reflection, which, of course, instantly smiled back. A smile full of warmth and affection. ‘For years, we playfully hoodwinked people into believing that they spoke to my brother when it was really me, and vice versa. Now, sir, I play my prank again. But I perform it on me. I deceive myself that my brother is alive and sits here painting eggs. Because if I don’t …’ He glanced at Thomas ‘… the pain of losing Benedict is too much to bear. I fear that grief would snap me in two.’ He smiled back at the mirror. ‘Isn’t that so, Benedict, old boy? Now, come on – make haste – we must finish painting these eggs before we skin our crows.’
After such a heartfelt confession of grief by William Feasby, any comment from Thomas would seem clumsy. Thomas, therefore, sat quietly. The clock ticked on the mantelpiece. The sound of Feasby’s paintbrush on the eggs became a light whisper. Sunlight fell through the window onto a rug, which bore a pattern of gold lions depicted as either lying on their stomachs, sphinx-like, or running through a lush, green jungle. The tick of the clock receded. The sound of the paintbrush merged with Thomas’s respiration. His arms felt incredibly heavy. He saw William Feasby smiling and nodding at his own reflection in the mirror.
Thomas closed his eyes. When he opened them he realized he sat in the horse-drawn carriage again with the thin gentleman. The stranger’s bald head gleamed as he studied Thomas’s face. The gold pin, tipped with a pearl, burned with the brightness of the sun. The man pulled the pin from his lapel. Its gold shaft was as long as a dagger blade. That’s when the carriage walls began to run with blood. Rivers of crimson poured down the windows. Abberline sat beside the man. He said nothing, merely gazing at Thomas.
The stranger uttered, ‘Thomas Lloyd. What if you were the demon Jack the Ripper? What if you, the killer, were in the presence of Inspector Abberline all along? What would he say when he discovered that his friend was Bloody Jack, the slayer of Whitechapel’s women.’
Abberline took the pin from the stranger, leaned forward, and drove the point into Thomas’s neck.
Thomas gasped. He found himself squinting against the bright sunlight. He clutched his neck as a stabbing pain made him wince.
‘It seemed such a shame to wake you.’ Feasby continued painting the eggs. ‘It’s this blue varnish. The vapours can go to one’s head. Can send one to the land of nod in a trice. Fftt.’
Thomas rubbed at the crick in his neck. He must have slept with his head at an odd angle. ‘I do beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep like that: most ill mannered of me.’
‘Sir.’ Feasby raised his eyebrows as if surprised by the apology. ‘The fumes of this, sir.’ He picked up the jar of varnish. ‘I should be apologizing to you. It’s remiss of me not to leave the door open to blow away the vapours. They’ve sent me to sleep before. And I must confess they make me dream like the devil himself paints pictures inside my head. Did you dream, sir?’
‘Ah … no dream that I recollect.’ Thomas decided against being sidetracked into talking about dreams with this decidedly quirky fellow. Besides, he had an important matter to discuss. ‘Mr Feasby. W
hat I will say next might appear unusual, but trust me, please.’
‘Then say away, sir, say away.’
‘I will show you an object.’ He pulled an envelope from his pocket. ‘First, however, I must ask you not to mention to anyone what you are about to see.’
‘And why is that?’
Thomas thought he saw both the stuffed wolf and the monkey turn their heads towards him. Those fumes were potent indeed. They befuddled his senses.
‘Mr Feasby, do I have your permission to open the door? The fumes from that varnish are quite potent, aren’t they?’
‘Open away, sir, open away. Fresh air would be welcome.’
Thomas opened the door. Cool air gusted in. He took a deep breath and immediately felt clear-headed once more.
Thomas asked, ‘Will you swear not to reveal what is said here, or tell anyone what I show you?’
‘You still not have told me why it is so important that I should keep my lips sealed.’
‘I beg your pardon. I felt quite lightheaded for a few moments.’ He inhaled the fresh air. ‘I ask you to keep this between ourselves because Inspector Abberline does not wish the killer of your brother to know the nature of our investigation and what clues might have been found.’
‘I see. So you believe poor Benedict’s murderer is still on the island?’
‘It’s possible, although we can’t be certain, of course.’
‘Hmm. Then you have my promise, sir. I won’t breathe a word of this interview to anyone … although I might share it with this gentleman here.’ He nodded at the mirror.
‘I daresay sharing a confidence with your reflection would present no problems.’
‘Now, sir, proceed with the interview.’
Thomas pulled the gold pin out of the envelope, revealing it to the man for the first time. He carefully watched Feasby for a reaction. The man registered nothing, other than the mildest of surprise.
Feasby gazed at what Thomas held. ‘A pin plus pearl. Understated adornment, it must be said.’
‘Have you seen this pin before?’
‘No, sir, I have not.’
‘Or one like it?’
‘Never.’
‘Did your brother ever mention owning a pin like this?’
‘He would have told me if he had.’
‘Would you like a closer look?’
‘That won’t be necessary. My eyesight is excellent.’
‘Thank you, Mr Feasby.’
‘Is that all, young man?’
‘Yes, and I’m grateful for your time.’
‘Back to my eggs, then, for another coat of blue.’
Thomas glanced at the stuffed animals in the room. They were bizarre creations indeed. He wondered how long before the devil’s angel tableau appeared here. It occurred to him that a satire of such angels laying eggs full of evil might be considered blasphemous in some quarters. However, he didn’t comment. Instead, he carefully replaced the pin in the envelope.
Feasby glanced up. ‘Where did you find the pin, sir?’
‘Did I say that it had been found?’
‘Come to think of it, you did not.’
‘I can’t really say any more about the pin, Mr Feasby. That would be something Inspector Abberline might or might not reveal when he returns.’
‘Understandable. The art of detection is mysterious, though, isn’t it?’
‘It can be, sir. Good day.’
Thomas left Feasby to his eggs. What an extraordinary individual, Thomas thought, unable to decide whether the man was a gifted visionary or simply eccentric. He took a path that led to the water’s edge, intending to dispel whatever remained of the varnish fumes from his lungs. By this time, the tide had already retreated, exposing mounds of mud in the River Humber. A few barges with dark red sails drifted downstream. Thomas supposed that Abberline would soon be riding the train south to London where he’d begin his hunt for Jack the Ripper. Thomas wished he’d gone, too, for the Ripper murders were the most infamous crimes in the world. As luck would have it (bad luck, that is), he was confined to this little island while his newspaper colleagues and, far worse, his rivals on other papers, would be penning reports of what would likely be the most sensational case of the year. In his mind’s eye, he could see those dramatic headlines: JACK THE RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN! ABBERLINE INVESTIGATES!
‘Ah, dear Thomas, you’ve returned to the place where we first met.’
Thomas glanced round. There was Jo, wearing the short leather kilt with those exotic pantaloons. She smiled happily.
‘Good morning, miss.’
‘None of that miss business,’ she scolded. ‘Call me Jo.’
‘Of course, Jo.’
‘Thank you, Thomas.’
‘It’s a lovely fresh day. The sunshine’s most welcome, too.’
‘Oh, Thomas. Let’s fling aside polite talk about the weather. Here.’ She stepped forward and boldly linked arms with him. ‘Come with me.’
‘Where?’
‘I’d like you to meet someone.’
‘Oh?’
‘The king of this microscopic country. You’ve not spoken to him yet, have you?’
He shook his head.
‘Then come with me, Thomas. I’ll introduce you to His Transcendent Majesty.’
Thomas walked with Jo along a woodland path. In that light, effervescent way of hers, she explained that ‘His Transcendent Majesty’ was how the male monarchs of Faxfleet were referred to in the charter that granted Ludwig’s family the kingship of the island.They emerged from bushes onto a broad lawn that led up to the rear of the palace.
King Ludwig stood with a tall, young man of about twenty-five. The young man wore his shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The hard bulge of muscle in his forearms was plain to see. He carried a longbow in one hand. Slung across his back was a quiver full of arrows.
Jo stepped forward, smiling pleasantly; the woman radiated self-confidence. ‘Your highness, I don’t believe you’ve been introduced yet to Mr Lloyd.’
The king nodded, smiled, and held out his hand for Thomas to shake. Thomas sensed that the welcome wasn’t just polite but had genuine warmth.
‘Mr Lloyd. Very pleased to meet you, and delighted that you are staying with us.’
Thomas said how honoured he was to meet the king. Even so, his gaze strayed to the young man who carried the archer’s bow. Thomas couldn’t help but visualize 81-year-old Benedict Feasby tumbling out of the tree with an arrow embedded in his chest.
King Ludwig gestured for the bowman to step forward. ‘This is my eldest son, Richard.’
Thomas shook hands, almost flinching at the power of the young man’s grasp. Richard wore a more serious expression than his father. He seemed to find greeting Thomas to be a tedious chore rather than a pleasure. Thomas wondered if he should refer to Richard as Prince Richard, seeing as he was the king’s son.
Jo, however, was at ease with the prince. ‘Richard, how are you finding the new bow?’
‘Much better than the old one,’ he said in a friendly fashion. ‘At least this one hasn’t snapped like a rotten twig.’
‘Ha, you don’t know your own strength, Dicky.’
The young man smiled. ‘Will you practise with me this afternoon?’
‘Yes, and I shall beat you, because my archery skills are superior to your brute strength.’
‘A bottle of port says I will beat you, Lady Jo.’
‘A bottle of port it is.’
Richard clearly liked Jo and it was only with reluctance that he said, ‘We have a little tournament today. I best go re-join my team.’ He nodded in the direction of a dozen or so men and women who stood near circular targets at the far end of the lawn. They all carried longbows.
After he’d trotted away, King Ludwig said, ‘Would you stroll back to the palace with me, Mr Lloyd?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Jo smiled. ‘I’ll say goodbye for now, gentlemen. I have my thesis to write.’
K
ing Ludwig watched her stride back towards the forest. ‘A remarkable woman, isn’t she, Mr Lloyd?’
‘She is indeed, sir. The leather kilt she wears would turn heads if she were to walk down a street in London.’
‘I imagine so, Mr Lloyd. Now, what do you think of my little kingdom?’
‘It’s remarkable. I never even knew of its existence until Inspector Abberline told me.’
‘I’m proud of my academy here. I believe that its inventors, artists and philosophers will contribute greatly to the advancement of mankind. Or does that sound vain of me?’
‘No, sir.’
‘But it is under threat. The academy faces nothing less than danger.’
Thomas understood this as a reference to the murder of one of the academy members. ‘The killing of Mr Benedict Feasby was an evil act. I’m confident that Inspector Abberline will find the murderer.’
‘You misunderstand me, Mr Lloyd. The threat to the academy doesn’t come from an assassin. It is in danger of being ignored. Gradually, the work here, by some of the greatest visionaries of our time, is starting to be considered irrelevant by universities and other academic bodies.’
‘I see.’
‘I have to say, Mr Lloyd, that British scientific and artistic societies are becoming dismissive, even scornful, of the work of my academy’s members. Such brave ideas are born here on Faxfleet: ideas that will make this world a better place. Professor Giddings, for example, believes that the British Empire will not survive unless our dominions overseas are represented in parliament. Therefore, he proposes that each country within our empire will elect a Member of Parliament. Therefore, India will have a representative, Australia will, and so on. Grievances will no longer be bottled up to fester until there is revolution. Our empire will remain intact.’
Thomas wondered why he was receiving what amounted to be a lecture. Nevertheless, he nodded politely. ‘I have met Professor Giddings. He strikes me as a man of remarkable intelligence.’
‘He is, sir. He is!’
‘The professor said that his house was fired upon recently. Windows were broken. He and his wife had to take cover.’