by J. J. Durham
‘Letters … ?’
‘Don’t get your hopes up. Her brother burned them. But her friend, Amalia, saw the man.’
‘Can she describe him?’
‘No.’
‘What, nothing at all? Hair colour? Height?’
‘Nothing.’
‘A pity.’ Field tapped his chin with his index finger. ‘So … our boy murders this Jewish girl, and then … what? Two things bother me. Why go to the trouble of setting up Johannes Appler for the girl’s death, if he intended to kill him rather than letting him take the blame? And why then go on this bloody spree?’
‘I think he chose Appler for a reason. I think he’s choosing them all for a reason. I just haven’t worked out what it is yet.’ Pilgrim paused. ‘You need me on the case.’
Field sighed. ‘Would you like to sleep here tonight? I’ll ask Alice to make up a bed.’
‘What about putting me back on the case?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
‘Good to see you back, Sergeant Pilgrim.’ Phelps turned to Field. ‘The Reverend Bonwell’s here to see you, sir. He’s been waiting above an hour. I’ve put him in the waiting room.’
‘Damnation.’ Field pulled a face. ‘I’d forgotten he was coming this morning.’
‘He’s here to identify Stella Drake?’ asked Pilgrim.
Field nodded. His gaze flashed speculatively to Pilgrim. ‘I have a meeting this morning. I don’t suppose … ?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
Field grinned and made his escape up the staircase.
The station waiting room was emptier than usual, with only four occupants on the wooden benches. Pilgrim recognized the first one.
‘How are you, Blackey?’
‘Jolly, sa!’ The bundle of rags gaped up at him, his single remaining tooth white in his mud-smeared face.
‘What are you doing so far from the river?’ Blackey was a mudlark who earned his living on the banks of the Thames at low tide, searching for anything he might sell: rags, scraps of bone, iron, or copper nails.
‘I found this. I thought I’d come and see if you Peelers might give me a bob or two for it.’ He held up a police rattle, the wood splotched and blackened from contact with the water. He saw the cigar box under Pilgrim’s arm. ‘You brought me a cigar, sa?’
Pilgrim shook his head and patted the man’s shoulder.
A little further along the bench from the beggar sat an elderly, soberly dressed couple. A pall of sadness hung over them. Pilgrim was going to pass them by, but something made him stop.
‘Can I help you?’
‘We are waiting for a release form. For our boy’s body. We were told it would only be a little while.’ The man read the question in Pilgrim’s eyes. ‘We are Hindrik and Gertrude Appler.’
‘Detective Sergeant Harry Pilgrim.’ He held his hand out to the man. ‘I’m in charge of the investigation into your son’s death.’
‘God bless you, sir.’ The man pumped his hand. ‘We know Johannes would never take his own life.’
The woman also got to her feet, her eyes raw with weeping. She clutched at his sleeve.
‘Wanneer zult u de moordenaar van mijn zoon vinden?’
Hindrik Appler blushed. ‘I beg you to excuse my wife, she has no English.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She asked when you are going to find Johannes’ killer.’
‘Soon. Tell her it will be soon.’ He moved away as the man relayed the words to his wife, wishing he had something other than platitudes to give them.
The last occupant of the waiting room sat as far away as possible from the other three, his body taut with outrage.
‘Reverend Bonwell.’ Pilgrim greeted him coldly.
‘About time! Dragging me all the way down here for no reason.’
‘Someone has to identify your sister-in-law’s body. Perhaps you would rather we ask your wife?’
‘Don’t be absurd!’
‘It would have saved a lot of time if you had told me about Stella during our interview in Great Barrow.’
‘So that’s what this is about! Making me wait here like some criminal, with beggars and,’ he directed a look of pure poison at the Dutch couple, ‘Baptists!’
Something at the very centre of Pilgrim went absolutely still. ‘You should have told me about your son, too,’ he said.
The colour drained from Bonwell’s face. His gaze slid to the other occupants of the waiting room, then slid away again. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Pilgrim stepped close to the clergyman, forcing him to retreat until his calves were pressed against the bench. ‘You curdle my guts.’ He spoke slowly, but very clearly, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. ‘Preaching piety in public, while, in private you beat your wife and seduce your sister-in-law.’
Hendrik Appler and Blackey the mudlark stared at him.
‘You didn’t even have the decency to bury the boy properly,’ continued Pilgrim. ‘He was your son, damn you.’
Bonwell opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. ‘This is outrageous … you have no proof … I demand to see your superior.’
‘Are you certain about that?’ Pilgrim refused to step away. ‘I daresay he would be extremely interested to hear about you and your familial relations.’
Bonwell sat down with a thump. The fight went out of him.
‘No.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No.’
Pilgrim turned away in disgust. ‘Let’s get this finished.’
The sight of Stella Drake’s broken body at St Bartholomew’s took the last vestiges of resistance from Bonwell. He signed the paperwork without another word to Pilgrim, or to Townsend, who completed the forms on behalf of the Coroner. Then he took possession of Stella’s sorry bundle of clothes, and left.
Pilgrim returned to the mortuary where Fairweather was waiting for him. The cigar box was open on the table, the severed finger in his hand.
‘I see you brought me something,’ said Fairweather. ‘It looks like Clara Donald’s – it’s been severed on the knuckle with a sharp knife. I’ll double-check, of course.’ He put the finger back into the box. ‘This one seems to be leading you a merry dance. You are certain it’s the same killer?’
‘What makes you ask?’
‘In my experience of multiple murderers, they tend to favour one method – the knife, say, or strangulation. This man appears to be going out of his way to make all the deaths as different as possible: a blow to the head, a cut throat, disembowelment, and now poison. It’s odd.’
‘As if he’s trying to find which method he prefers.’
‘Practising.’ Fairweather’s eyes locked with Pilgrim’s.
Practice makes perfect. The phrase rang in Pilgrim’s head.
Wainwright burst through the door, startling them both. ‘Inspector Field sent me to fetch you post-haste, Dr Fairweather, sir,’ he gasped. ‘We have a prisoner in the cells what’s havin’ the most fearful fit!’
‘A fit?’ asked Fairweather. ‘What symptoms?’
‘He’s thrashin’ about on the floor, sir.’
‘Is he making a noise?’ Fairweather saw Wainwright’s blank look and elaborated. ‘Is he screaming, or shouting?’
‘He’s gruntin’ sir, something dreadful. Enough to raise the hairs all over your body.’
‘I’ll get my bag.’
After the doctor had fetched his medical bag, the three men hailed a cab that bowled them along the Strand towards Whitehall.
‘Why has Field sent for me?’ asked Fairweather. ‘Don’t you have a doctor on the premises?’
‘Yes, sir, Dr Cruikshank, sir. But the Chief Inspector thinks it’s poison,’ said Wainwright. ‘That’s why he sent for you.’
‘Who’s been poisoned?’ asked Pilgrim.
‘Mr Trinkle, the suspect Sergeant Tanner brought in for the Countess.’
Pilgri
m frowned.
Fairweather turned to Wainwright. ‘Has he any other symptoms, apart from the convulsions? Is he cold to the touch?’
‘I didn’t get that close, sir. Didn’t want to.’
The noise hit them as soon as they arrived at Whitehall; a bestial moaning coming from the direction of the cells, more suited to an abattoir than a police station.
‘Hector. Thank God.’ Field was waiting for them. ‘This way.’
‘I can hear that,’ muttered Fairweather. Pilgrim followed.
Angus Trinkle lay on the floor of his cell; his body arched backwards, heels drumming on the stones. Bloody spittle flecked around his mouth. As soon as they entered the cell, however, he went limp and silent. His eyes rolled up to look at them in agonized entreaty. The police doctor, who was kneeling beside him on the floor, patted his shoulder ineffectually.
‘Have you given him anything?’ asked Fairweather.
‘I’ve tried to administer laudanum, but his jaw is locked.’
Fairweather knelt to open his bag. ‘I should have brought chloroform. Ether will have to do.’
Trinkle began to twitch and then to jerk again. Spittle flew, and the inhuman moaning resumed. The crowd that had gathered in the tiny cell gawked at the thrashing figure.
‘Hold him still, Cruikshank.’ Fairweather poured liquid onto a cloth.
Trinkle possessed an inhuman strength. It took both Cruickshank and Pilgrim to keep him still enough for Fairweather to clap the cloth over his mouth and nose. After a minute, Fairweather signalled for the men to step back. Trinkle’s convulsions didn’t lessen, nor did his eyes close. Fairweather wiped his own forehead with his sleeve.
‘It hasn’t worked,’ said Field.
‘It has,’ said Fairweather. ‘He’s unconscious, thank God.’
The moaning had stopped. It had been replaced by grunting, mechanical exhalations, as Trinkle’s lungs were squeezed by his spasms.
Fairweather stared at his patient. ‘There’s nothing else I can do.’
Trinkle continued to jerk as if he was a puppet under the control of some sadistic puppet master. His whole body stiffened and arched backwards, until it could bend no more. And then it did. Another muscle spasm seized him and there was an audible ‘crack’. The body continued to thrash for another minute, before it lay still at last, twisted grotesquely on the stone floor.
Pilgrim closed his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
‘Strychnine?’
‘I believe so, Charley,’ said Fairweather, ‘although I won’t be able to confirm it until I get him to the mortuary.’
‘Rat poison, do you think?’ Field dropped into the chair behind his desk.
‘I doubt it. From the violence of the convulsions and the speed of death it had to have been a massive dose. I would say it was probably strychnia in its purest form.’ Fairweather frowned. ‘God knows where he got it from.’
‘I’m more worried about how it got into the cell,’ muttered Field. ‘His pockets should have been emptied. Has he had any visitors, Dolly?’
‘Not that I’m aware of, sir. I can check with Sergeant Phelps.’
Field rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t understand why he would do such a thing.’
‘Perhaps he was guilty, sir?’ suggested Dolly. ‘Perhaps he did murder the Countess?’
‘And killed himself in a fit of remorse?’ Field snorted. ‘That kind of thing only happens in novels. But we’ll see what Tanner has to say about the gloves.’ He nodded to Fairweather. ‘I’m grateful for your coming so quickly, Hector. I’m sorry there was nothing you could do. Harry will see you out.’
Pilgrim and Fairweather went down the staircase together. The entrance hall had resumed its usual noise levels, its inhabitants swearing, singing, and shouting threats.
When they got to the door, the doctor turned to Pilgrim. ‘It makes no sense,’ he said. ‘The lad could have chosen any number of poisons that would have done the job cleaner. It’s a hell of a way to kill yourself.’ He rammed his hat onto his head and stepped out onto the street.
Pilgrim watched him go. A hell of a way to kill yourself … or a hell of a way to be killed? Why did everyone assume Trinkle had committed suicide, when another prisoner had already been murdered under their noses?
Dolly accosted him at the top of the stairs.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you, sir,’ he said. ‘I came to your lodgings last night, but you weren’t there. Didn’t Lotte tell you I needed to speak to you urgently?’
‘Lotte?’
‘Mrs Piper.’
Pilgrim shook his head, distracted. His thoughts still lay in Angus Trinkle’s cell.
‘It’s about Clara Donald, sir,’ continued Dolly.
‘Who?’
At that moment Charley Field stuck his head out of his office door. ‘Harry!’ he snapped. ‘Can I see you in here a minute? You too, Adolphus.’
When Dolly saw that Wainwright was already in Field’s office, his face drained of colour. Wainwright studiously avoided his stare, while Pilgrim looked at him, curious.
‘Sorry, sir,’ mouthed Dolly.
‘Sit down.’ Field marched behind his desk and leaned on it, as if to gather his strength. ‘Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, young Wainwright here tells me he found something belonging to you, Harry, in Clara Donald’s effects.’
Pilgrim frowned, his thoughts whirring. Clara Donald? Hadn’t Fairweather mentioned a Clara Donald? Clara Donald’s finger. Clara. The name’s Clara, since you ask. Be sure to tell your friends about me. The words rang in his memory, left him nauseous.
‘The prostitute? She’s dead?’
Field glanced at Dolly and then at Wainwright. Dolly was as pale as Wainwright was scarlet. Field snatched up the portrait and thrust it at Pilgrim.
‘Recognize this?’
Pilgrim didn’t need to look. He’d been in such a hurry to leave Clara Donald’s room that he’d forgotten Martha’s portrait. He’d planned to go back for it.
‘Of course I do.’
‘Well?’ Field glared at him.
‘It was Clara who told me where to find Martha Drewitt. She recognized her, after … ’ Pilgrim realized he could say no more. Field glared at the other detectives.
‘Out. Both of you.’
The young men bolted for the door. Field grabbed Dolly’s sleeve as he passed.
‘I’ll speak to you, later,’ he hissed.
Dolly threw himself out of the door, and slammed it shut behind him.
‘What’s he done?’ asked Pilgrim.
‘Tried to cover your arse. Silly bugger. I know from experience what a thankless task that is.’ Field sank onto his chair. ‘Buggering hell’s flames, Harry. It’s one thing to know, unofficially, that you’ve been visiting tarts, and another to have my bloody nose rubbed in it.’
‘Mea culpa,’ said Pilgrim.
Field’s head whipped up.
‘Of having sexual relations with Clara Donald. Nothing more.’
‘Of paying for sexual relations with Clara Donald, who then turns up dead in our investigation.’
The two men looked at each other. A world of recrimination, regret, and resignation passed between them. Field sighed.
‘I can handle Wainwright. But I’m telling you now, Harry, this is your last chance. Cock-up again, and I’ll not only take you off the case, I’ll send you to the provinces. If, by some miracle we still have a Detective Force when this is over, I’ll transfer you to bloody George Moxton in Essex. I swear.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
‘I hope you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, but I have agreed to let the Phrenology Association of Edinburgh take my measurements for posterity. Dr McPherson here tells me I have the most pronounced faculty of benevolence.’
‘Indeed you do, sir.’ The Scotsman applied his callipers to the writer’s jaw. ‘Now if you could just hold still another wee moment?’
‘He also examined the skull of William
Burke after he was hanged,’ continued Dickens, ignoring the doctor’s request. ‘Tell the Sergeant and Constable what you discovered.’
McPherson removed the callipers with a sigh. ‘A pronounced enlargement of the temporal bone that signals destructiveness, and the propensity to commit murder. And an underdeveloped zone of empathy.’
Dickens’s eyes gleamed with an evangelistic fervour. ‘Only imagine, Sergeant Pilgrim, how useful it would be to be able to identify potential murderers by measurement alone!’
Pilgrim thought it best not to point out the drawbacks of such a policy. He hadn’t brought Dolly to Devonshire Terrace to be drawn into a debate. They had only stopped off as a courtesy, on their way to investigate a pawn ticket that Dolly had found between the pages of Clara Donald’s bible.
‘Mena Levy’s brother identified her body this morning,’ Pilgrim told Dickens. ‘Thank you, sir, for giving me the introduction to Isaac Simmons.’
Dickens nodded, dislodging the callipers again. ‘Delighted to be of assistance. Was Mr Levy able to give you any information?’
‘He told me about a man who had taken to following Mena around, and had written her letters. Unfortunately, the letters have been burned. Mena’s friend Amalia read them, but cannot remember anything of the contents. She also saw the man several times but is unable to give us anything but the vaguest description.’
‘Nothing useful at all?’
‘No.’ Pilgrim ran a hand through his hair. ‘If there was only one thing, one tiny thing she might remember.’
Dickens fell silent. Dr McPherson made the most of his subject’s uncharacteristic stillness, and flew around him with the callipers, measuring and making notes. At last he gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘My examination is complete, sir.’
Dickens waited for him to pack up his equipment, and then led him to the door. ‘Mrs Herring will see you out. I will call on you in Edinburgh in June.’ He waited until McPherson’s footsteps had gone before speaking again. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘are either of you gentlemen familiar with the practice of mesmerism?’