Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  Contents

  Cover

  Titles by Simon Beaufort from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Titles by Simon Beaufort from Severn House

  The Alec Lonsdale Series

  MIND OF A KILLER

  Novels

  THE MURDER HOUSE

  THE KILLING SHIP

  The Sir Geoffrey Mappestone Series

  MURDER IN THE HOLY CITY

  A HEAD FOR POISONING

  THE BISHOP’S BROOD

  THE KING’S SPIES

  THE COINERS’ QUARREL

  DEADLY INHERITANCE

  THE BLOODSTAINED THRONE

  A DEAD MAN’S SECRET

  MIND OF A KILLER

  An Alec Lonsdale Mystery

  Simon Beaufort

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2017 by Simon Beaufort.

  The right of Simon Beaufort to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8762-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-878-1 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-940-4 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  For Ethel, Gertrude, Ada, Audrey, and Ma

  This story could be true.

  The quotations from news articles and many of the events described here were taken directly from The Pall Mall Gazette, The Times, and other London newspapers in 1882.

  PROLOGUE

  Where do the paths begin that lead two people to come together at a specific moment? How far back in their lives, and in what corners of their minds, lie the origins of their convergent fates? Is the linking of destinies part of an all-knowing master plan, or is it driven by some unthinking, unstoppable evolutionary purpose that we do not yet comprehend?

  I, of course, think the latter. And yet I discern no progress achieved from those circumstances that have conjoined our lives. In previous years, our footsteps trod different roads. More recently, however, we looked at each other, lied to each other, mistrusted each other. Yet each moment has led to an encounter that will have its final chapter tomorrow, when this man who has dogged my being ceases to exist. But I still wonder when precisely our destinies became bound together.

  Perhaps it began on that early December night in 1869. How clearly I remember the rain pattering gently on the chalky walkway, as I stepped deeper under the cover of the lime trees. It was too dark to see my watch, but I suppose I had been observing the house for nearly two hours. It was not attractive, and had no social or architectural pretensions. Indeed, although the buildings and gardens were obviously well loved, the owner’s modifications – a flint-stone wall between house and lane, a hedge around the kitchen garden, and the orchard – had been in the interests of privacy, rather than in the showmanship so frequent in Kent’s country houses. This desire for solitude was certainly convenient for my plans as well.

  The evening schedule was as regular as clockwork – also to my benefit. It must be almost 10.30, I judged, meaning that the backgammon, played each night, would soon be finished, and the couple would retire. Then the study would be mine, as the servants never entered it at night.

  The rain had eased by the time the drawing-room lights were blown out, and the ground floor became dark. Still I did not leave the shelter of the trees, but stood tormented by indecision. I knew that within the study were clues about the work with which he was currently concerned – perhaps an unfinished paper, which I could rewrite and publish myself. I smiled, because the master of the house was famous for the slow, methodical process by which he reached his conclusions – I could revamp the article well before he completed it. My career would be made overnight if I were the first to express the ideas that came from him.

  But then my courage began to fail at the prospect of stealing from a man who had proven to be a colossus greater than Newton or Bacon. Would anyone seriously believe that I had developed such theories? But why not? Was I not a Balliol man? Could I not be like its other giants?

  I pulled on my gloves against the cold, watching for the upstairs lights to be put out. I had not long to wait – since he rose at 6.30 every morning, the master did not stay up late. But I hesitated – was it an hour or minutes until my desire won out, and I approached the house? The window shutters were open, the owner believing that, sixteen miles from London, his peaceful home served as a citadel against the world. It was over in a moment, the crowbar splintering the soft wooden frame around the rear door beneath the central staircase.

  Silently I crossed the hall to his study: the microscope on a board in the window, the revolving drum table with its samples and specimens, the notes and scribblings. I closed the door, lit a candle, and then froze as my feet set the floorboards creaking. Had anyone else heard? I paused, motionless, holding my breath. Then I moved the regency chair towards the table, sat down, and began to go through the papers. A new book was obviously in progress, and I read several paragraphs with mounting excitement. I had to force myself to stop – I could hardly steal an entire book!

  I continued my search. And there it was – a copy of a letter written that very day. I read it, then again, and gazed at it with a mixture of wonder and enlightenment. I still smile at the image a photograph taken at that moment would portray: a young man, mouth agape; right hand holding the letter and left pressed against the long Dundreary whiskers that were so popular but so ridiculous; and eyes looking far away, yet inward.

  I had just found the central meaning of my existence, for this letter was not just an article or a manuscript, but an instruction, a calling from on high. In it were answers not just about my future but that of many others. I put it in my pocket and blew out the candle. But I did not leave. I sat there, the profound awareness of that moment seeping into every part of my mind and soul. That one piece of paper had shown me
that I would be a leader of men, a minister of a new calling, in fact, no less than a saviour to future generations.

  17 January 1882, near Arras, France

  William was dozing fitfully in the otherwise empty second-class compartment when the door from the train’s inside corridor was thrown open, waking him with a start.

  ‘Good morning,’ said one of the two men at the door. ‘I hope seven o’clock is not too early to discuss business?’

  William swallowed hard as the man entered the compartment and fastidiously brushed off the seat opposite with a gloved hand. His companion closed the door from the outside; William heard him lean against it.

  ‘So,’ said the visitor as he sat down, ‘what are we going to do?’

  ‘I received a telegram from a friend who’s ill,’ blurted William, heart racing. ‘I was going—’

  ‘Hush.’ The man held William’s eye for a moment. ‘Let’s just sit quietly, shall we?’

  William’s mind whirled in panic, although he knew he had to stay calm if he wanted to survive. The man facing him was more monster than human, and William had never been so terrified in his life. Of course, he did not look evil. His double-breasted morning coat and vertically striped trousers were impeccably pressed, his short, buttoned boots freshly brushed, and his walking stick shiny and clean. He looked like a man stepping out of his club.

  ‘Why are you here, Nathaniel?’ asked William, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.

  ‘More to the point,’ countered Nathaniel, ‘why are you here?’ He smiled; it was not a pleasant expression. ‘You bought a coupon from Calais to Brussels, making such a show that even the cretin in the ticket office would remember you. But then you changed destinations at Ghent. Now, why was that? Not to escape from me, surely?’

  ‘I can’t do this any more,’ whispered William, cornered. ‘I shan’t try to stop you, but I can’t be a part of it.’

  ‘You won’t try to stop us?’ snapped Nathaniel, his voice increasing in volume. ‘Fool! This is the natural course of events. No one can stop it! You entered this business as and when I determined, and you will leave as and when I decide!’

  William drew back at the venom in the words, but then Nathaniel smiled gently. ‘Come, my young truant,’ he said silkily. ‘Neither of us should become overly excited. If you wish to leave, then of course you may. But let’s talk first; we owe each other that.’

  ‘But how did you know …’ began William, not deceived by the sudden show of geniality.

  Nathaniel wagged a scolding finger. ‘Never try to fool the master, William. It was obvious that France was your destination.’

  William hung his head, feeling stupid and wretched. ‘So what now?’

  ‘Mr Morgan and I hope that you’ll accompany us back to London.’

  ‘No!’ said William, trying to press himself back into the seat. ‘No, please!’

  Nathaniel inclined his head. ‘Then we shall travel to Boulogne together and talk as we go. I’ll try to persuade you to come home, but if you remain firm in your conviction, then I shall bow to your will. At least you’ll be easier of mind, having left with my blessing, rather than having stolen away. What do you say?’

  William weighed his options, which he sensed were actually very limited. ‘Very well – if I have your word that I may leave if I choose.’

  ‘Oh, I guarantee it,’ said Nathaniel. ‘If you wish to go, we’ll just drop you off somewhere along the line.’

  He smiled again, but there was such malice in his eyes that William felt his stomach lurch, and he was suddenly more afraid than ever.

  ONE

  Thursday 20 April 1882, London

  Alexander Lonsdale blinked soot-laden rain from his eyes as he slogged over the well-manicured but sodden fields of Regent’s Park. The downpour came in sheets, beating against the butts as he walked through the area reserved for the Royal Toxophilite Society; on reaching the Outer Circle, the ring road around the park, he followed it to Clarence Gate.

  A greasy, grey plume, darker than the clouds, lay across the rooftops in the distance. His assumption that there was a blaze somewhere was confirmed by the clanging bells of a fire engine, audible over the ever-present rumble of traffic. The cold, dreary weather meant London’s Fire Brigade was busier than usual for April, as hearths were left burning whenever their owners could afford it. Lonsdale kept moving, feeling rain course down his neck and his trousers stick unpleasantly to his knees.

  A row of hansom cabs waited at Park Road, their miserable drays standing with drooping heads and matted coats. Drivers stood in huddles, chatting together, or puffing on their clay pipes, waiting for the inclement weather to push customers their way. They eyed Lonsdale hopefully, and he considered hiring one, but he was already sodden and still indignant at the way he had been dismissed at the Zoological Gardens that morning. Thinking exercise would help alleviate his bad humour, he kept walking, eventually reaching Harewood Square, where imposing grey mansions sat behind smooth stone pillars.

  But his thoughts kept returning to the irritating business of his unsuccessful morning. It was the second time that week he had arrived for an appointment with the director of the Zoological Gardens. It was also the second time that, after a lengthy wait, he had been informed that Dr Wilson was unavailable, and would he come back another time. As it happened, Lonsdale was not particularly interested in returning, but a commission was a commission, and if the editor of The Pall Mall Gazette was prepared to pay for an article on London’s magnificent zoo, then Lonsdale would provide him with one.

  More rain found its way down the inside of Lonsdale’s collar, and he increased his pace. He resented being treated in such an ungentlemanly manner, and he had declined to leave until Wilson’s secretary had put a new date in his diary: between seven and eight the next evening.

  Lonsdale decided that if Wilson was indisposed a third time, the article would be written without his input. Perhaps he would include a few home truths: that the lions were mangy rather than ferocious, that cramped conditions were probably responsible for the bizarre behaviour of the monkeys, and that most of the tropical inhabitants would probably thrive and would certainly be healthier if they were ever let outside. Wilson would be hard pressed to deny these charges, and would heartily wish he had spoken to the reporter.

  Engrossed in his vengeful musings, Lonsdale stepped off the pavement to cross the road. A sudden yell and an urgent jangle of bells brought him to his senses, and he leapt backwards as a fire engine hurtled past, the horses’ iron-shod hooves striking sparks against the cobbles. He watched the engine swing down one of the side streets, and the clanging faded.

  He had just begun to walk again when a shrill cacophony warned of the approach of another engine. Lonsdale glanced up at the sky, and saw that the dirty grey streak was now a thick cloud of smoke, hanging heavy across the rooftops. He could smell burning, too. As the engine thundered past, its brass pumps gleaming, he thought how unusual it was for three fire crews to attend the same blaze.

  He hesitated. There were few things he despised more than ghoulish spectators at the scene of a tragedy. Yet he knew that if he were ever to be hired full-time – something for which he desperately hoped – he should take advantage of any opportunity that came his way.

  As he hovered indecisively, he saw others were not allowing fastidious pretensions of dignity to prevent them from indulging their curiosity and were converging on the scene of the fire. Some were servants, cloaks hastily thrown over uniforms, sent to find out what was happening for their masters; others were chance passers-by. Mentally shrugging, Lonsdale followed them.

  The engine turned into Marylebone Road, then jigged right into Wyndham Street. Here, among the solid, unpretentious villas of the city’s clerks, shopkeepers, and transport employees, was a row of tightly packed, two-storey terraced houses, each with a tiny, low-walled front garden. Halfway down the road, bright tongues of flame licked out of the windows of two of them, and smoke seeped throu
gh their roofs – spiralling upwards.

  The reason three engines had been sent was painfully clear – the fire was spreading to the adjoining houses. It was obvious that the two homes were lost, and the firemen were concentrating on their neighbours. Clad in their uniforms of dark serge, they laboured furiously with pumps and hoses, and hoisted ladders to the upper windows to drench the rooms and create a sodden barrier in the hope of preventing the fire from advancing.

  Lonsdale watched the tiny spouts of water hiss ineffectually against the leaping flames, before moving among the crowd, storing impressions in his mind and looking for someone to tell him who lived there and how the blaze had started.

  Some of the spectators lived nearby, and fear that the fire would take their own homes induced them to scream orders and advice, all of which were ignored by the sweating firemen. There seemed to be a body of opinion that the terrace should be demolished before the fire spread further. This proposal was vociferously contested by a thin-faced, frightened man who stood amid a random collection of chairs, clutching a biscuit barrel. Next to him, a woman dazedly rocked a screaming child in her arms, and said nothing. Lonsdale balked at intruding on their despair, and looked for someone else to talk to.

  Near the back of the crowd was a man wearing the distinctive peaked cap of a railway guard and a woman with a beaky nose, her sleeves rolled up and her arms dusted with a film of flour. Lonsdale surmised that, unless she often walked around with dough on her arms, they were residents of Wyndham Street and that she had been baking when the excitement started.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, as hot tiles began to slip from the roof to smash on the ground below. A harried policeman and brigade volunteers tried to prevent onlookers from surging forward to snatch a better look.

  The railway guard shook his head, while the woman studied Lonsdale suspiciously, pushing a tendril of wet hair from her eyes and leaving a smudge of flour on her nose. Her gaze turned from his face to his clothes, as if assessing his respectability by the quality of the top frock he wore. Lonsdale waited politely, although he knew that any conclusions she drew from his appearance would almost certainly be wrong.