Inspector Abberline and the Just King

by Simon Clark

  Thomas found Jo’s philosophy extremely unsettling. With a shudder of distaste, he said, ‘So the children of potential, not actual, criminals would be treated differently to other children? They’d be sent to special establishments to have discipline instilled in them?’

  ‘That problem wouldn’t arise. Men and women who exhibit the skull shape of criminals would be forbidden from having children.’

  ‘My God …’

  ‘We can no longer produce children in the old ways of our ancestors. We should eliminate chaotic procreation that produces a criminal sub-species.’

  ‘I must say that your ideas overwhelm me.’

  ‘We live in testing times that will demand powerful remedies if society is to prosper.’

  ‘Jo, how on earth do you prevent human beings from producing families? Are you suggesting that you put policemen in their bedrooms?’

  A loud bang sounded from the direction of the mill. Richard was clearly determined to despatch as many rats as possible with that musket of his.

  Jo’s voice was quite gentle. ‘Dear Thomas, you are a compassionate man. I like that quality in you. But see what Richard is doing. He’s destroying infant rats in their nests. If he did not do that the vermin would breed until there were so many they would overrun the island. They would attack us the moment we stepped out of our homes.’

  ‘Human beings aren’t rats. What did you find when you examined Wilf Emsall’s skull? Did you discover that he’s a criminal in the making? Will he grow up to steal and cut throats?’

  ‘I’ve made you angry, Thomas.’ Her eyes glistened with tears. ‘You are so angry you want to strike me down.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t hit you.’

  She reached out for his head again. This time she pulled his face to hers and crushed her lips against his.

  Chapter 10

  Two o’clock in the morning – that’s when all hell broke loose. Thomas awoke hearing screams. It sounded like a woman shrieking.

  ‘Jo!’ he gasped.

  He scrambled out of bed to tug on his trousers and boots. By the time he’d rushed from the bedroom he saw that Abberline had already reached the front door and was pulling back the shiny new bolt that had been fitted yesterday. Thomas noted that Abberline was already dressed. He’s sleeping in his clothes, Thomas thought. He’s expecting another murder.

  Thomas rushed out of the cottage. ‘Jo! Where are you?’

  A breeze whipped the trees. Leaves streamed into his face. From neighbouring cottages people emerged, holding lanterns. They wore dressing gowns over their nightclothes. Their faces were tight, pale masks of worry.

  William Feasby battled against the gales blowing in from the river. ‘What is happening?’ he cried. ‘Is it murder?’

  Abberline had managed to light a lantern. He followed Thomas down the path to the lane. Meanwhile, the high-sounding shrieks grew louder.

  ‘Jo!’ He ran against the winds that gusted into his face. ‘Jo!’

  The screams came from ahead of him. But when he heard a female voice call out, ‘Thomas!’, it came from behind. He turned to see Jo stepping out from her garden into the lane. She held a white kimono around her, the breeze rippling the silk.

  Thomas stopped running. ‘Jo? Are you all right?’

  A piercing scream penetrated his skull. He spun around to see a thin man hurtling towards him. The man held one hand above his head. His eyes bulged in terror. This was the musician, Virgil Kolbaire. He was still clad in the black evening suit he’d worn for dinner in the palace refectory. The white shirt was now smeared with red marks.

  ‘Mr Kolbaire,’ was all Thomas managed to say before the man struck him in the face.

  To Thomas’s surprise the blow was wet. The man’s hand was sopping. Thomas felt the wetness on his left cheek where the blow had landed. Kolbaire howled like a madman. His eyes blazed as they fixed on Thomas’s face. The man attempted to strike Thomas again. This time Thomas caught the man’s wrist. The hand was just inches from his eyes. Then Abberline darted forward to catch hold of Kolbaire’s arm, as well as holding the lantern up to illuminate the scene.

  Thomas’s gaze locked onto Kolbaire’s hand. The first two fingers were gone. Blood streamed from raw amputation wounds.

  Kolbaire screamed, ‘The devil took them! He doesn’t want me to play!’

  With a howl of sorrow Kolbaire broke free of both Thomas and Abberline. Thereafter, he fled down the lane. Thomas followed. Within moments, he was pursuing the wounded man along the beach. Gusts of wind blasted the pair. The river had turned white, huge waves raced in to break on the shore. Kolbaire hurtled into the water, shrieking all the time. Thomas realized that Kolbaire was now in danger of drowning, so he waded in after the musician, and managed to grab the man by his jacket.

  Kolbaire fought back, trying to punch Thomas with his intact hand, as well as the ruined fist of the other. Although it was almost too dark to see Kolbaire, other than his stark, white face, Thomas succeeded in seizing the screaming man and hauling him back to the shore.

  Inspector Abberline arrived, carrying the lamp. There were others there, too, including Jo.

  Kolbaire no longer fought. He clung to Thomas like a frightened child. Sobs convulsed him as he cried, ‘It’s finished … I am done. I am no more.’

  The force of the winds became even more formidable as it grew light the next day. Mr Virgil Kolbaire lay on a sofa in Samarkand Cottage. He was deeply unconscious. Jo had stitched together the open holes where the fingers had once been. She’d then tightly bandaged his hand, using wads of cotton, so the end of his right arm had become bulbous. Thankfully, her medical skills had stopped the bleeding, and no blood leaked through the white bandage.

  King Ludwig called early that morning to check on Kolbaire.

  Ludwig asked briskly, ‘Is his life in danger?’

  Abberline shook his head. ‘I’m sure he will recover, providing there is no infection.’

  Thomas added, ‘We should take him to the infirmary in Hull as quickly as possible. A doctor should inspect the wounds.’

  ‘Nothing can be done yet, I’m afraid. The ferry won’t run in weather like this.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll do our best to take care of him until he can be taken to the mainland.’

  ‘Is it true?’ asked the king. ‘His fingers were cut off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ludwig flinched, looking sickened. ‘This must be the work of the killer.’

  Abberline nodded. ‘I have every reason to believe it is.’

  ‘He must still be on the island, then. Boats can’t make the crossing when the water is so rough. We have the devil trapped here, Abberline. I’ll get my men out and we’ll search until we’ve caught him.’

  ‘Sir –’ began Abberline.

  ‘I’ll put a bullet between his eyes if I have to.’

  Even though Abberline tried to speak with Ludwig, he rushed out of the cottage, jumped onto his horse, and rode away.

  ‘If the killer hasn’t left the island,’ Thomas said, ‘then there’s every chance he’ll be caught.’

  ‘He? The killer might be a woman. Or there may be a gang of murderers. What worries me is if Ludwig sends out hotheads there’s every chance they’ll shoot an entirely innocent islander.’

  Kolbaire grunted in his sleep. Abberline pulled back the man’s eyelid to examine his eyeball. After that, he slid back the man’s sleeves to look at both arms.

  Thomas asked, ‘Have you seen something?’

  ‘The man’s pupils have shrunk to tiny dots. He’s been drugged. There are no injection marks that I can make out.’

  ‘The killer must have introduced the drug to his food, just as they slipped poison into the meal that poisoned one of the women in the Giddings’ household.’

  ‘It’s entirely possible.’

  ‘Is the killer changing their aims? The last two attacks resulted in injury, not death.’

  ‘Remember what you told me,’ Abberline said. ‘The kil
ler must compete with news that Jack the Ripper might be back in Whitechapel. It will take a very dramatic story to divert the public’s attention from Jack.’

  ‘There are still three constables on the island. They could mount patrols.’

  ‘They are just three men, Thomas. They can’t guard everyone. The cottages are spread out through a mile or so of forest. And then there’s the king’s palace at one end of the island and the fishing village at the other.’

  ‘Perhaps the academy members could be housed in the palace for the time being?’

  ‘And leave the fishermen and their families to guard themselves? Tut tut, Thomas. I wouldn’t have thought you, of all people, would deprive the working class of police protection.’

  Thomas felt his face burn. He realized his suggestion had been a careless, slipshod one.

  Abberline continued in that mild, understated way of his: ‘Kolbaire is still fast asleep. At least the drug is keeping him unconscious. When he wakes, however, the pain in his hand will be hard to bear.’

  ‘Someone nearby might have laudanum.’

  ‘Perhaps you would ask our neighbours if they have some?’

  ‘Of course. I think most of them are awake.’

  ‘Would you ask, also, for brandy? Well, any spirit will do. See if you can get at least half a pint.’

  ‘I think laudanum would work best to kill the pain.’

  ‘No, Mr Kolbaire’s fingers … they must be somewhere nearby.’

  Inspector Abberline told Thomas that now it was daylight they should search Kolbaire’s home. Thomas had returned with a bottle of laudanum. He also had half a pint of gin in a stoneware jug. Abberline transferred the gin to a clean glass jar with a cork lid. He took this with him to Kolbaire’s cottage just along the lane. Immediately, they found drops of blood on the path that led to the front door. The blood trail continued into the kitchen that also served as a living room. Abberline nodded at the sofa where a pillow still lay at one end with a dip in the middle that had been formed by someone resting their head upon it.

  Abberline said, ‘We both saw Kolbaire at dinner last night. Did he appear as if he was intoxicated?’

  ‘Not excessively. I noticed he did sway a little when he walked.’

  ‘It looks as if he returned home and decided to sleep on the sofa. Perhaps he thought he might be ill in the night and wanted to be near the sink.’

  Thomas looked around the room. It was extremely tidy. A neat stack of sheet music stood on a low table. On a shelf was a violin case. Kolbaire was scrupulous in keeping a well-ordered house.

  Thomas checked the floor around the sofa. ‘There’s no blood here. So where was he attacked?’

  Abberline went to a sash window. He raised the heavy frame containing the glass and looked out. ‘Here,’ is all he said before walking outside.

  Thomas followed him around the cottage until they reached the other side of the window. Blood smeared the window ledge. More red splashes adorned the outer wall and the soil beneath the window itself.

  ‘Ah.’ Inspector Abberline removed the jar, containing the gin, from his pocket. Crouching down, he picked up a red object. ‘The middle finger.’ He dropped the severed digit into the gin. The hitherto clear liquid turned a cloudy pink. ‘And the first finger.’ He added the other digit to the spirit.

  Standing up, he pressed the cork top back onto the jar. Thomas tried not to look at the pair of objects floating in the gin.

  Inspector Abberline took a deep breath. ‘Cleanly severed. Perhaps an axe, machete or cutlass. The kind of blade that would cut two fingers clean off in one forceful swipe.’

  Thomas swallowed. ‘The man plays the violin as well. Or, rather, he once did.’

  ‘Tell me what you think happened. We’ll see if our theories match.’

  ‘Mr Kolbaire ate dinner in the palace refectory last night. We were there with the other academy members. Kolbaire left early. He came back here where he lives alone. He ate or drank something that contained a narcotic. He was under its influence when he opened the sash window and looked out. Either something had attracted his attention or he needed fresh air. He leaned forward with his hands out on the ledge like so.’ Thomas extended his arms, hands out, palms down. ‘The attacker waited nearby, seized their opportunity, and brought an axe or sword or something of the like down hard. The blade cut through the fingers as they rested on the window ledge.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I suppose it was like hacking meat on a chopping board.’

  Abberline examined the window ledge. ‘Even though it’s partly covered by blood, you can see a fresh cut mark in the wood. The blade went right through flesh and bone before cutting into the ledge itself.’

  They returned to their own cottage where, after a while, Kolbaire began to come round. The man shouted loudly when he moved his hand. Abberline poured out a glass of laudanum, yet he asked the injured musician some questions before allowing him to drink the potion that contained opium and wine, for that would quickly render him insensible again. Kolbaire revealed that he’d begun to feel unwell during dinner and had returned home early. He’d lain down on the sofa and fell asleep. He woke up in the dark and needed fresh air because his head was spinning so much. He opened the window and leaned out, resting his hands on the ledge as he did so. That’s when he felt a blow to his right hand. He hadn’t realized what he’d suffered immediately. He’d closed the window and tottered back towards the sofa. That’s when he glanced at his hand. Blood poured from open wounds, and two of his fingers were gone.

  ‘I ran out of the house,’ he told them. ‘Everything became strange. I couldn’t feel any pain. It was as if I’d drunk a bottle of whisky all to myself. Then I don’t recall anything else until I woke up here.’ His eyes rolled and he wore an expression of anxiety. ‘Am I finished, sirs? Will I be able to play my music?’ He winced and clenched his undamaged fist. The pain was making itself felt more strongly than ever.

  ‘Here,’ said Abberline gently. ‘Drink this.’

  The man eagerly downed the laudanum in one gulp. He sighed with relief. Soon he was fast asleep again.

  A knock sounded on the door. Thomas opened it to reveal Professor Giddings, who stared at the sleeping man on the sofa. Giddings looked so unhappy that he seemed close to tears.

  ‘Inspector Abberline.’ He whispered the words. ‘I’m here to make a confession. It is all my fault. I am responsible for that man’s injury.’

  No one spoke after Professor Giddings’ stark confession. The white-bearded man remained in the cottage doorway, staring at Kolbaire, who lay sleeping on the sofa. A tiny spot of red had formed on the white bandage around his hand. Giddings then turned his attention to the glass jar that contained a pair of fingers, floating in the pink liquid. Abberline picked up the jar and placed it in a wall cupboard.

  At last Abberline did speak. ‘Professor Giddings. Tell me everything.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’ He stepped into the kitchen. ‘Kolbaire … that imbecile … he infuriated my wife so much that just the sight of him would put her in a bad mood for the rest of the day. She said he was a crook, and couldn’t play the violin any better than a monkey could.’

  ‘Go on,’ Abberline prompted when Giddings stopped.

  ‘Kolbaire tortured me with that violin of his. He stood in the lane, scraping the strings, making it screech. I will not call it music – I will not. My wife and her sister lay dead in a mortuary, and he continued making ridiculous noises with that instrument of his. It just seemed so unfair, Inspector.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘When I was in Malaysia I obtained a quantity of drugs used by witchdoctors there. I brought them home as part of a collection of objects from the Orient. Well … I decided to add a quantity of narcotic powder to Kolbaire’s wine last night at dinner. I hoped it would trigger bizarre behaviour. If he caused an unpleasant scene then I reasoned that the king might demand that he leave the island.’

  ‘You put the drug into his wine glass?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tha
t is a crime in its own right,’ Thomas said.

  ‘I know. But I hated the man so much. I wanted rid of him.’

  Abberline spoke sternly. ‘Then you followed him home and cut off his fingers. That way he’d never play the violin again.’

  ‘No, Inspector. I’d never attack a man like that.’

  ‘Who did amputate his fingers?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. It wasn’t me. When I returned home I went straight to bed.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  Professor Giddings shook his head. ‘The drug must have lost its power. Perhaps it had grown stale. I’d kept it for months in a box.’

  ‘It did work, but not as quickly as you planned,’ Thomas said.

  Abberline added, ‘The man only became fully intoxicated when he reached his cottage.’

  Giddings couldn’t take his eyes off the injured musician. ‘I put the drug into his wine when he wasn’t looking. I admit that. I did not maim his hand. I did not. I would swear on the Bible that I did not.’

  ‘Do you believe Giddings?’ Thomas asked the question as he and Abberline walked to the palace later that morning. Storm-winds violently rocked the trees.

  Abberline paused. ‘I believe I do. Giddings’ intention was to drug Kolbaire so that he would behave in a ridiculous way.’

  ‘Then someone else must have discovered that Kolbaire was intoxicated by the drug and used that to their advantage.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  Jo waved a greeting to them as they neared the palace. For once, she was dressed conventionally in a long dress of white muslin. Gone were the cowboy boots and leather kilt. She walked across the lawn in the company of Mr Feasby, and one of the king’s gardeners who carried a shotgun. Clearly, Ludwig had ordered some of his staff to act as guards.

  Abberline gazed at the woman in white. ‘She looks like a bride, doesn’t she … Thomas? You’re blushing.’

  Thomas shook his head vigorously. ‘It’s the breeze. It’s blowing very hard today.’