by Simon Clark
‘I’m sure reporters will be clamouring for the story.’
‘Especially as two policemen almost died. And, even more dramatically, the men were rescued by you and the young lady. A heroic story like that will make the pair of you famous.’
‘We did what anyone else would do in the circumstances.’
‘But the newspapers will shout out the story to the world. The poisoning and the rescue will be discussed over dinner everywhere from a poor hovel to a rich man’s castle.’
‘You think that the method of poisoning was chosen deliberately to draw the public’s attention?’
‘Just as Mr Benedict Feasby was shot from a tree by an arrow.’
‘Then the killer is attempting to make their work famous?’
‘It looks like that.’
‘Are they striving to be as famous – as infamous – as Jack the Ripper?’
‘Which leads to my own ferreting about in Whitechapel.’ Abberline gave a rather sad smile. ‘Shall we go indoors? I could do with a wash and brush up, and then I’ll tell you what happened to me and my hunt for loathsome Jack.’
A boy arrived at Samarkand Cottage. He wore a brown apron and pushed a wheelbarrow on which was balanced an easel and a blackboard. The boy had shiny black marks on his forehead and chin. He rolled the wheelbarrow up to the door where Thomas was levering off his boots.
‘Sir,’ he said to Thomas. ‘I’ve been told to bring this board and easel. There’s a bag of chalk, too.’
Thomas guessed that Inspector Abberline had asked for the loan of these items. He preferred to order his thoughts about a case by chalking salient points on a board.
‘Thank you.’ Thomas gave him a penny.
The boy’s eyes lit up as he took the coin. ‘Ta, sir,’ he said, using ‘ta’ (rhyming with ‘tar’), the local slang word for ‘Thank you’. ‘I’m the lad that cleans boots at the palace. Would you like me to put a bit of a shine on those for you?’ He nodded in the direction of the boots that Thomas had levered off. The lad clearly saw more of Thomas’s money coming his way. He pulled a cloth and a tin of boot polish from a huge pouch sewn onto the front of the apron.
Inspector Abberline appeared in the doorway. ‘You could give mine a polish, if you would?’ Abberline handed him a pair of shoes that still had a bright sheen.
‘Ta, sir!’ Straightaway, he sat on the bench with the shoes on his lap. He vigorously applied polish. Some of the polish had clearly found its way onto his face earlier.
‘My name’s Abberline. What’s yours, young man?’
‘Wilf.’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Wilf.’
‘You, too, sir.’
Thomas followed Abberline back into the cottage. ‘Your shoes looked perfectly clean to me, though I suppose you have an ulterior motive for having the boy polish your shoes?’
‘Boys like that have a knack of seeing and hearing plenty. He’ll know a lot about what happens locally. In fact, he probably knows secrets about the islanders.’
Thomas smiled at Abberline’s knowing glance. Thomas then collected the easel and blackboard from the barrow. Meanwhile, Wilf buffed Abberline’s shoes until they glinted as if they’d been freshly varnished. The boy had also managed to get more boot polish onto his face and earlobes.
Thomas set up the easel and board in one corner of the kitchen. Abberline had sliced some cheese and bread and set it out on a pair of plates.
‘I think we could do with stoking up on some food while we work.’ Abberline fished pickled onions from a jar.
Thomas had to ask a question that had been preying on his mind. ‘Inspector, tell me if I’m being nosey. Have you received any more letters?’
‘From bloody Jack?’ He shook his head as he sat down at the table. ‘Despite the murder of Mrs Verity prompting a huge amount of newspaper stories, he’s kept quiet.’
‘Are you certain that the recent murder in Whitechapel was the work of the Ripper?’
‘Too early to say.’ Abberline stared at the bread and cheese on his plate as if he’d abruptly lost his appetite. ‘I can tell you what I know so far. Mrs Ruth Verity arrived from Poland as a little girl. She was raised by hardworking and honest parents in Plymouth. When she was twenty she married a George Verity. They moved to London where he bribed officials in order to obtain a contract for a new road. George Verity went to prison. He’s still there. Mrs Verity went to live in a lodging house in Chelsea where she made an honest living repairing watches, a skill she learned from her father. This week her body was discovered in a ruined house in Whitechapel.’
‘The body had been mutilated?’
‘Yes.’ Abberline avoided looking at the food. ‘Face and torso slashed by a sharp blade. Wounds resembled those found on some of the Ripper victims of two years ago. Facial injuries were especially similar to the way that Elizabeth Stride had been cut.’
‘Then it is the Ripper. You had a letter from him threatening to start killing again. A few days later the body was found.’
‘I can’t leap to conclusions, Thomas.’
‘So there is something unusual about this case?’
‘Very sharp of you, Thomas.’ Abberline’s face crinkled into a grim smile. ‘The autopsy revealed that the woman’s lungs were covered with an orange stain.’
‘Residue from smoking tobacco?’
‘Iron oxide.’
‘Iron oxide? How?’ Thomas shook his head in bewilderment. ‘How on earth can lungs be stained with iron oxide before they’ve been removed?’
‘The police surgeon believes that Mrs Verity drowned in water where there’s a substantial iron content. You’ve seen streams and rivers that are a distinctive orange.’
‘She was drowned by the killer?’
‘I can’t reach that conclusion yet. It does suggest, though, she was immersed in iron-rich water, which she inhaled as she drowned. Then the body was removed from the water, washed, dressed in clean clothes, before being delivered to a derelict house in Whitechapel. That’s where the cuts were inflicted.’
‘I see. You think it might be a hoax?’
‘A gruesome hoax, Thomas.’
‘But it could be an attempt to torment the police by making them fear that Jack the Ripper is back.’
‘Yes, Thomas. I think you might be right.’
‘And someone went to a lot of trouble to do that. It wouldn’t be easy to procure the body of a recently deceased woman then move it around London without being noticed. A carriage must have been involved, along with, as likely as not, more than one person.’
Knuckles tapped the doorframe. ‘Sir? Mr Abberline, sir?’
‘Ah, Wilf. My shoes.’
‘All done, sir.’
‘They look splendid.’ Abberline pulled several coins out of his pocket and handed them to the boy.
‘Blimey, sir. Thank you. Do you want any more boots shining up?’
‘No, thank you.’
Wilf headed back to collect his barrow from the path.
Abberline followed him outside. ‘Wilf? Have you worked at the palace long?’
‘Three years, sir. I’m fourteen next week.’
‘You must see plenty of the academy members come and go.’
‘Oh, aye. They come across the water from the mainland all smiles. Everyone gives me a shilling here and a shilling there for my help.’ He clearly saw an opportune moment to underline the notion that his services were invaluable and were to be rewarded with coins aplenty. ‘Then if the king decides they’re not up to much – then kush!’ He swung his foot as if kicking an object out of the way. ‘Kush! Off they go, back to the mainland. Sometimes they’re shouting, and cursing, and angry at being chucked out. Other times they’re sad as sad can be and weeping. It’s something to behold, Mr Abberline.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘And another thing, sir. They have games. The strangest sport you’ve ever seen. I bet you …’ Wilf’s voice instantly faded when he glimpsed a figure leave a cottage jus
t along the lane. The colour drained from his skin. His eyes widened with shock. Just the sight of Jo terrified the lad.
‘What’s wrong?’ Thomas asked.
‘That lady.’
‘Miss Hamilton-West?’
‘Let me hide indoors, sir. I don’t want her to see me.’
Thomas laughed in a bemused kind of way. ‘Why ever not, Wilf?’
‘I’m scared of her. She hurt me.’
The boy crouched down on the garden path, in the hope that Jo wouldn’t notice him.
‘Nip into the kitchen,’ Abberline told him. ‘She won’t see you there.’
Wilf dashed into the cottage. The expression of terror on his face alarmed Thomas. Why is the boy so frightened of Jo?
Jo strode along the lane, carrying a longbow. Did the boy think she’d fire an arrow at him? The sudden turn of events bewildered Thomas.
‘Oh, hello there.’ Jo smiled in that bright way of hers. ‘Did you have an interesting trip to London, Inspector?’
‘Interesting and informative.’
She appeared in a hurry so continued walking. However, she called out, ‘Thomas, dear. We’re having a competition this evening, archery on the palace lawn. You’re welcome to join us. You, too, Inspector.’
Thomas and Abberline thanked her and said they’d come along.
‘Cheerio, gents.’ With that, she vanished into the trees.
A moment later, Wilf’s boot-polish-mottled face appeared. ‘Has Lady Jo gone?’
‘Yes.’ Abberline smiled to put the boy at ease. ‘All clear. You’re safe.’
‘Thank crikey for that!’
Thomas watched the boy as he hurried to his wheelbarrow. ‘Why are you so frightened of the lady? She’s very pleasant.’
‘You don’t know what she did to me! Just seeing her makes my blood run cold.’
‘Why? What did she do?’
‘I must go back to the palace. I’ll get a right yelling at if I’m not back in time to do the saddles.’ He picked up the handles of his barrow and trundled it away at a run.
‘Well, upon my soul,’ murmured Abberline. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘I can’t believe that Jo would hurt a child.’
‘Wouldn’t you, Thomas? I didn’t have you pegged as a naïve man.’
Thomas felt uneasy. He’d formed an impression of Jo as being a cheerful, friendly woman who would be kind to adults and children. Now … well, he felt as if the rug had been pulled from beneath his feet. He couldn’t help but ask himself what kind of suffering she had inflicted on the boy to make him so terrified of her.
Inspector Abberline had regained his appetite. Earlier, when he’d been talking about the murder of Mrs Verity, and her injuries, he’d been unable to eat. Now, however, he finished the plateful of bread and cheese. Thomas ate as well. It would be a few more hours until dinner at the palace refectory. After they’d eaten, Abberline went to the blackboard, set upon its easel in one corner of the kitchen. There, he chalked the names of the three people who’d died recently on the island. For now, this case would be the one that he’d devote his time to. Presumably, his colleagues at Scotland Yard would continue to investigate the death of Mrs Verity.
Abberline stood beside the board. ‘I’ve been looking into the independent nature of this island,’ he said. ‘There’s a copy of the royal charter at the British Museum. King George III granted Ludwig Smith the right to be the Royal Sovereign of Faxfleet. Today’s King Ludwig is the eighth monarch. He created his academy thirty years ago with the intention of allowing what he calls “gifted and exceptional individuals of vision” to pursue their studies in art, science and philosophy.’
Thomas nodded. ‘There are thirty or so current members, which receive a monthly allowance, and free food and lodgings, so it’s a considerably expensive exercise.’
‘Good point. Which leads to this question: how does the king afford the upkeep of his palace and the academy?’
‘There’s a fishing village in the north of the island. A man there told me that they pay the king rent.’
Abberline chalked the name ‘Ludwig’ on the board. Beneath that he wrote ‘Landlord’. ‘It might help if we create a clear picture of the king and his financial situation.’
‘Income from the fishermen’s rents won’t amount to much.’
‘Agreed. However, I discovered the real backbone of his income. The royal charter allows Ludwig to create a total of twenty-five senators. He sells each title for ten thousand pounds.’
‘Quite a sum.’
‘The really clever part is that any man becoming one of Faxfleet’s senators doesn’t have to pay the British government income tax or excise on imported goods. Instead, they only pay about a third of what would be their usual British taxes to King Ludwig. He’s been very astute by selling the senator titles to some very wealthy men. They’re pleased because they save vast amounts on income tax. Accordingly, this scheme has made Ludwig a very rich man.’
‘Meaning he can gratify his passion for running the academy.’
‘An academy that breeds envy and rancour amongst its members.’
‘I’ve seen evidence of that.’ He told Abberline about meeting the composer on the beach and how he’d listened to the man’s gleeful criticism of his neighbours. ‘And soon Ludwig will judge their work and decide who will stay and who will leave.’
Abberline chalked the words: Academy + Rivalry = Murder?
Thomas said, ‘There’s no evidence that academy members have killed each other?’
‘No. But there is evidence that people on the island have resorted to violence in the past. I’ve checked the police records in Hull. Twenty years ago, two inventors fought a duel because one accused the other of stealing his design for an oil pump. They decided to settle the argument with pistols. Fortunately, it rained when they tried to shoot each other. The gunpowder in the pistols had become damp and wouldn’t fire. On another occasion, a painter and a sculptor fought a duel with swords. When the painter wounded the sculptor in the arm the painter fainted at the sight of blood.’
‘Nobody actually died?’
‘No. It does demonstrate that emotions among academy members become inflamed. Arguments flare up. There are fights. Stones thrown at windows. Rivals attempt to sabotage the work of others. So –’ Abberline held out his arms ‘– how long until a desperate man, or woman, resorts to murder?’
For the next hour, Abberline and Thomas discussed what they’d discovered about the island. Thomas knew from previous investigations that Inspector Abberline believed it essential to create a firm base of background information before he built his case: hence his research of the royal finances and history of the academy.
Later, as Abberline covered the blackboard with a towel to hide what was written there from prying eyes, he paused. ‘Oh. Just another point about the charter that grants independent sovereignty to Faxfleet. It stipulates that the kingship will only continue to exist as long as the island exists.’
Thomas raised an eyebrow. ‘Coincidentally, I was speaking to a fisherman recently. He told me that the river’s current has been changed by dredging. He’s certain that the island is getting smaller. Gradually, it’s being washed away, and Faxfleet will be gone in thirty years.’
‘Interesting. Which means that one day the Kingdom of Faxfleet will dissolve along with the island, and the royal line will come to an end.’
‘Along with a huge annual income. What now? Shall we begin interviewing the islanders?’
Abberline smiled that knowing smile of his. ‘Or we could go and watch some archery instead.’
The archery contestants gathered on the palace lawn. There were about thirty of them. They fired arrows at targets fixed to the same kind of easel that Abberline had borrowed. Abberline and Thomas exchanged glances as arrows powerfully thudded into the targets. Contestants were aged anywhere between fifteen, perhaps, to mid-seventies. They were either members of the academy or their sons and daughters and
so on. Thomas knew what Abberline was thinking. The archers were skilled. Any one of them could have fired the fatal arrow that brought Benedict Feasby crashing down from the tree. Thomas glanced across at William Feasby. The twin of the dead man sat on a tree stump with his knees drawn up near his chin as he watched the competition.
Servants, meanwhile, carried trays, bearing glasses of sherry, from person to person. Jo marched across the lawn to Abberline and Thomas.
‘I’m so glad you could make it.’ She beckoned a servant. ‘The sherry’s very good.’
Thomas and Abberline took a glass apiece.
‘Will you test your luck with the bow, Thomas?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think I will. I’ve never fired an arrow in my life.’
‘You should try,’ she told him firmly. ‘In fact, you should try everything once.’
Abberline smiled pleasantly. ‘I daresay that should not include theft or murder.’
Jo laughed. ‘Yes, I should say try everything once within reason.’
Thomas had something to get off his chest, although he approached the subject obliquely. ‘We had a visit today from a young lad called Wilf. He was most keen to earn some money by polishing our shoes.’
‘Yes, he does boots at the palace. He’s quite an imp.’
‘You mean he can be mischievous?’
‘Are you trying to lever some information from me, Thomas?’
‘It would be prudent to know if he can be trusted.’
‘With your footwear?’
Inspector Abberline took a sip of sherry. ‘It might be useful to have a reliable lad who can run errands while we’re here.’
‘Yes … Yes.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I know what this is about. Wilf’s told you about the terrible injury I inflicted upon him.’
‘What injury?’ Thomas was shocked. ‘What did you do?’
‘Oh, the usual type of brutal assault that scientists inflict on their specimens.’
‘You’re making fun of us,’ Abberline said.
‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’ She grinned. ‘Yet another demonstration of my cruel nature.’
‘What did you do to the boy?’ Thomas felt himself becoming angry.