Equinox

by Michael White

  she was taking no chances. By the time they reached the house in Woodstock, she felt exhausted with the effort of concentrating so hard on the road ahead. She was seeing white spots in front of her eyes.

  She pulled in as close as she could to the back door and made a dash for the shelter of the porch as Philip fumbled for his key. He slipped it into the lock, but the door was already open. They both walked into the kitchen.

  'Hello?' Philip called.

  'In here.' It was Jo's voice.

  A fire was blazing in the living room and a Django Reinhardt track beat melodically from Philip's iPod, which he had hooked up to a pair of speakers. Jo was sitting on the sofa next to another young woman. Philip recognised her vaguely. The girl was sobbing and Jo was trying to comfort her.

  'What's happened?' Laura asked. 'Jo?'

  'This is Marianne — she's in my topology group.' The young woman looked rather embarrassed and wiped the tears away.

  'I don't mean to cause. .' she began. She had an exceptionally high-pitched voice, the voice of a little girl.

  'Don't be silly,' Jo replied. 'Mom, Marianne found this in her pigeonhole at college.' She handed her mother a sheet of paper.

  It was a computer-manipulated image, Marianne's head superimposed on a pornographic photograph of a nude model spreadeagled on a bed. Her hands and feet had been tied to the corners of the bed with thick rope. Using some sophisticated computer software someone had simulated a huge rip the length of the woman's abdomen, and a portion of her intestines was spilling from the gash. Above the picture in bright red lettering was written: This Is What I'd Like to Do to You,

  'Do you have any idea who might have done this?' Philip asked.

  'No, no, not really'

  'Not really?'

  'Well, there is one creepy guy in our year.'

  'He's a real lech — a really serious lech, actually,' Jo added. 'Russell, Russell Cunningham. He's a psychology student but comes to some of our stats classes. Handsome, in a sort of pukey Ricky Martin kinda way, but really creepy. He's always looking at me as if he's mentally undressing me. Not nice.'

  'Has this guy ever tried it on?' Laura asked Marianne.

  'I don't think he'd have the nerve to actually do anything,' Marianne replied.

  'You may be right,' Philip said. 'But I don't think you can go accusing anyone. You certainly have to report this, though, Marianne. I don't want to frighten you,' he added carefully. 'But it may have some bearing on the current murder investigation.'

  Marianne turned visibly pale.

  'I did think that myself, but I didn't like to say,' Jo said. 'I haven't been into college since the accident, and it's the Easter vac, but everyone left in hall is totally psyched-out by what's happening.'

  'I know at least two girls who've gone home to their parents until the whole thing blows over. They would normally have stayed in Oxford to work through the holiday,' Marianne added.

  'I can't say I'm surprised,' Laura said with a sigh and sat down in an armchair across from the sofa. 'I think you all have to be especially careful.'

  'You kinda get used to this sort of thing in New York,' Jo remarked. 'But I don't know, I thought Oxford would be. .'

  'Oxford's a pretty place, no doubt about that,' Philip said. 'But the people are fundamentally the same as those who live in the Bronx — or in Timbuktu, for that matter.'

  'So you think I should take this horrible picture to the police?'

  'I think you have to.' Philip did not hesitate. 'It's probably nothing more than a sick joke, but Forensics will want to have a look, just in case.'

  Chapter 24

  The Public Records Office is a modern brick building surrounded by luxuriant and beautifully maintained gardens in the upmarket district of Kew on the south side of the Thames in west London. Here an average house is worth as much as an entire street of terraced cottages in Sheffield, and the demographic is skewed towards the As and Bs as defined by disposable income and career status. By London standards at least, the tree-lined streets are clean and safe and the cafes and shops are largely frequented by designer families with children dressed from Gap and Kenzo Kids, privately educated and cared for by American and Swedish nannies.

  Founded by an Act of Parliament in 1838, the Public Records Office is home to some of the most iconic documents ever penned. These include the original Domesday Book, returns from the parliamentary elections.of 1275, an inventory of Elizabeth I's jewels, William Shakespeare's will, the confession of Guy Fawkes, and the minutes of Churchill's

  War Cabinet during the Battle of Britain. It is also the repository of many records of criminal investigations dating back to the earliest years of the British police force.

  To Laura and Philip's surprise they found that the police archives were indeed stored on computer files and that they could be accessed from a set of terminals in the reading room. The system was similar to the one at the Oxford library, and they found their way around it pretty quickly.

  Philip opened the file for 1851 and then put in a search for 'Oxford murder investigations'. There were thirty-seven documents, listed chronologically and dating from the time when each investigation was officially started. He entered 'June'. Two investigations had begun that month. The first was a file only 22K in size, the other was 23 IK. Philip clicked on the second, reasoning that the serial killings starting that month would have been one of the largest criminal investigations conducted in Oxford for many years.

  The file opened and they read the title: Investigation into the Connected Murders of Molly Wetherspoon, Cynthia Page, Edward Makepeace and Lucinda Gabling, All of Oxford, Between the Dates of 15 June and 9 July 1851 . It was 120 pages long.

  'I'll get us some coffee,' Laura said.

  Philip tapped her arm and pointed to a sign on the wall that read:

  NO EATING OR DRINKING IN READING ROOM.

  'Ah’ she sighed. 'In that case, we'd better get started.'

  Philip clicked down the file and the first page of text immediately sucked them in. It was entitled CASE SUMMARY and beneath the title was written: STRICTLY PRIVATE, NOT TO BE COPIED, NOT FOR PUBLIC PERUSAL.

  Laura felt the hairs rise on the nape of her neck and suddenly all thoughts of coffee were forgotten.

  The summary began:

  'Our investigation commenced on 15 June, the Year of Our Lord 1851 and it was officially closed on 12 August of the same year.' It then went on to list the names, addresses and some personal details of the victims, as well as some background concerning Patrick Fitzgerald. There then followed three pages describing the murders, each reported in chronological order.

  'My God,' Laura exclaimed. 'This is unreal.'

  If the style of language was ignored, the locations changed and a few archaisms dismissed, the descriptions that Philip and Laura were reading could almost have been written during the past week. In each case the victims had died from stab wounds or by having their throats slashed. With the one incident that involved a male victim and a female one, the murdered man had been killed and then left, but the girl had been mutilated with surgical precision. In the case of the first murder, Molly Wetherspoon had her kidneys removed. In the second, the female victim, Cynthia Page, had her brain taken from her skull, and in the third murder the liver had been taken from the slain girl Lucinda Gabling.

  Here were details that had never been released to the press of the time. At the scene of each murder a coin had been found. The first had been made of copper, the second of silver, the third of tin. Laura felt icy fingers run along her spine.

  The commanding officer's summary report read:

  After conducting a detailed and thorough investigation into the series of murders committed in this city between 15 June and 9 July 1851 we have reached the conclusion that the murders were committed by Mr Patrick Fitzgerald of Dublin, a labourer, aged 31. This official conclusion was based upon the testimony of three witnesses and later confirmed in a written confession obtained from Mr Fitzgerald on 16 Ju
ly.

  However, I would like to add a personal addendum to the official secret record pertaining to the events described above.

  It is my personal conviction (and I feel I must here reiterate that this is an expression of my personal conviction alone) that Mr Fitzgerald was not responsible for the murders under investigation.

  Until the time of Mr Fitzgerald's arrest, the press had taken upon themselves the task of inciting public feeling about this case, feeling that was both emotional and volatile. They did this by creating a scapegoat in the sorry form of a young man named Nathaniel Milliner who was accused of murdering all the victims.

  However, I believe this to be an entirely erroneous notion. I am convinced that the young boy in question could never have committed these horrendous acts. In each case, the female victims had internal organs removed with expert precision and there were definite, but unreadable occult overtones to all four murders. Nathaniel Milliner is an imbecile with barely the talent to hold a knife and fork at the dinner table. Indeed, my overwhelming suspicions lay entirely elsewhere, and I believe that the murders were committed by a trained and highly skilled individual, possibly a doctor or a surgeon.

  After the fourth murder, when the young boy, Nathaniel Milliner, was apprehended at the scene of the killing at Forest Hill, another individual was also present at the scene and was asked to accompany myself and my officers to the Oxford Police Station for further questioning.

  This individual is a very senior member of the academic community here in Oxford and so all investigations and questioning were required to be conducted with the utmost probity and attention. The individual was helpful with our enquiries, but I took it upon myself to compose detailed notes on the interview immediately after the individual was allowed to leave our custody. Within these notes I commented upon the following indisputable facts:

  Stains which looked remarkably like blood were to be found on his jacket and his shirt.

  When he was encountered close to the scene of the crime, the gentleman in question appeared to be in a highly agitated and anxious state, and he was apparently confused by our presence there.

  When later interviewed at the station, he told us that he had travelled to Forest Hill directly from a local shoot on the land of Lord Willerby (a close friend) whose estate is indeed in the environs of Forest Hill.

  Lord Willerby later confirmed this account was entirely true.

  To me it seemed undeniable that the gentleman in question was behaving abnormally. Even so, having agreed to return the next day for further questioning, the gentleman was permitted to leave. This individual did not return, nor was he ever asked to return. Instead, on 10 July, the day after the fourth murder,

  I was summoned to attend a private meeting with a senior officer who informed me that any further investigation into the affairs of the aforementioned gentleman must be terminated forthwith and that the gentleman was to be left in peace. I was also informed that Nathaniel Milliner should henceforth be left equally unmolested. Five days later, Mr Fitzgerald was arrested by my officers and brought to the police station for questioning.

  Here ends my personal addendum.

  Signed: Chief Detective Jeffrey Howard.

  'Wow,' Laura exclaimed. 'Wow, indeed.'

  'So Patrick Fitzgerald was nothing more than a fall guy. And the police knew it?' 'Looks like it.' 'I find that amazing.'

  'You shouldn't. Remember, Laura, in 1851 the police force had only been in existence for, what? — twenty years? There have been many similar cover-ups far more recently, I can assure you.'

  'And it was one hell of a cover-up,' Laura remarked. 'Neither the boy, Nathaniel Milliner, nor the labourer, Patrick Fitzgerald, had anything to do with it. It was this "gentleman", an "individual" who cannot be named.'

  'What I find just as amazing is that this Chief

  Detective Jeffrey Howard could be allowed to include this report,' Philip said.

  'Classic case of covering one's ass,' Laura responded.

  'Yes, but how could a relatively junior investigating officer be allowed to point the finger, however subtly it was done?'

  'He must have added this long after the event. Look.' She flicked back. 'It's dated January 1854. Maybe Howard was about to leave the force, or the files were being moved and he knew that no one would be interested in looking at them, until perhaps, one day. .'

  'That has to be it,' Philip replied. 'There's no way Howard could have made his feelings known at the time — he would have been booted out. . at the very least.'

  'The guy found at the scene of the Forest Hill murder was obviously someone important, someone with amazing contacts.'

  'I would have thought it's pretty obvious who that was.'

  'Nathaniel's father?'

  'Our eminent Professor of Medicine, John Milliner.'

  'Howard almost says as much in the last line, doesn't he?' Laura responded. 'What did he write?' She flicked back through the text once more: 'Here it is: "The gentleman should be left in peace. I was also informed that Nathaniel Milliner should henceforth be left equally unmolested.'"

  'So, what have we got here?' Philip said. 'These murders were almost identical to the recent ones — similar mutilations, similar metal coins — and the whole thing was a cover-up: the killings were almost certainly committed by Milliner, an important member of the university, someone with friends in very high places. There's also the fact that the university was the real power-broker in Oxford in 1851. The authorities would have done everything possible to keep the truth quiet. They would have closed ranks, and they would have set up someone they viewed as insignificant trash. So they framed a penniless Irish navvy who had a record. Fitzgerald was just perfect. Poor bastard. Of course, the real clincher will be if we put the exact dates of these murders into almanac.com

  and find they match with the removed organs and the type of coins found at each scene.'

  'It would, but we don't have with us the passwords that Tom gave us, so that'll have to wait until we get back to Oxford,' Laura replied. 'Let's go see what Charlie has to say.'

  Chapter 25

  The worst of the traffic was around Kew itself. Mothers in four-wheel drives on the school run had no qualms about cutting across lanes, and sales reps racing back to their admin centres to clock off early added their own hazards.

  Philip had taken over the driving. 'Getting around this place is like playing fucking Space Invaders,' he complained as a young woman in a Grand Cherokee jeep suddenly appeared out of a side street. 'God, and isn't that just typical?' he yelled, slamming his hand down on the horn. 'Look at that on her bloody rear window — Baby On Board!'

  By the time they reached the Westway they had started to make good time, until they crossed over the Baker Street intersection where they got snarled up again. It was almost four-thirty as they turned along Museum Street.

  Philip indicated right and was just turning into the narrow street when an ambulance emerged and blocked their way. Philip reversed out quickly and

  the ambulance sped off in the direction of Tottenham Court Road. Pulling into the lane the first thing they saw were flashing blue lights.

  Laura dashed out of the car even before Philip had put on the handbrake. A police car stood directly outside the White Stag bookshop and next to it was a small blue van. A man in a white plastic oversuit was sliding into the driver's seat of the van and another was already seated inside. A uniformed officer stood at the door to the shop, and as Laura ran up two plain-clothes officers emerged.

  'What's happened here?' Laura exclaimed. As she reached the doorway she could see a pool of blood on the floor just inside the shop.

  'And you are?' one of the officers asked. The other looked on as Philip reached them.

  'My name's Laura Niven. I'm an old friend of the owner, Charlie Tucker.'

  'Philip Bainbridge. We got a call from Charlie earlier. .'

  The blue van was edging away from the kerb. 'Sanders,' the officer turned to his collea
gue. 'Tell Forensics home time will have to wait an extra five. I would at least like a verbal from them before they go skipping off.' His voice sounded husky and tired. He extended a hand. 'Detective Jones. I'm sorry, Ms Niven, Mr Bainbridge. I'm afraid I have to inform, you that your friend died earlier this afternoon.'

  'But that's. .' 'That's?'

  'Well, he texted us, texted me at — I don't know — when was it, Philip? Just before midday?' Laura couldn't hide the shakiness in her voice.

  Philip nodded.

  'We arrived here about an hour ago,' Jones said. 'The body was taken away just now; after our Forensics chaps were finished.' He pointed towards the opening into Museum Street where the ambulance had nearly collided with them. 'One of the new private ambulance companies. Got here pretty sharpish, I'll give them that.' Then he noticed the Forensics officer walking over from the van. 'Excuse me.'

  Out of the corner of her eye Laura could still see the crimson puddle on the bookshop floor. An intense nauseous feeling swept over her. She took a couple of deep breaths.

  'You OK?' Philip looked as shocked as she felt.

  'I guess,' she replied unconvincingly. 'But this is just madness.'

  Jones returned from the van, shaking his head.

  'Sorry about that. I know this is a difficult time for you both, but I would be grateful if you could answer a few questions for us.'

  'Questions? You don't. .'

  'Ms Niven, you are not a suspect at the moment, if that's what you're thinking. Mr Tucker died from a gunshot wound, fired at close range. We would like to know more about him. Was he depressed? Can you offer us some background?' 'Shot? I don't. .'

  Philip took Laura's arm. 'Yes, of course,' he said evenly. 'Anything we can do.'

  Chapter 26

  Oxford: 12 August 1690. Close to midnight.

  They were all exhausted. At forty-eight Isaac Newton was the oldest by almost twenty years. Landsdown had seen but thirty summers, and Fatio, the pretty Fatio, was but a score and five years out of the cradle. Newton felt ancient.