Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  He had spent most of his adult life in the Colonial Service – one of Queen Victoria’s faithful representatives in Africa, where he had passed the better part of nine years. He had then returned to London, where a year later he had horrified his family by informing them that he intended to become a newspaper reporter. So Lonsdale, whose clothes were of good quality but not at the height of fashion, was difficult to assess solely on the basis of his attire. Even so, she decided he was sufficiently respectable to warrant a reply, and began to speak in a nasal, self-important voice.

  ‘I was just putting the bread in the oven when I heard yelling outside, so I went to see what the fuss was about. This is a respectable street, and we don’t pry into each other’s business, so I didn’t rush straight out, like some would have done.’

  ‘What did you see?’ asked Lonsdale, when she paused for – he assumed – an acknowledgement of her proper manners.

  The woman coughed as a billow of smoke rolled over them. ‘Mr Donovan was yelling something about his chimney being blocked and catching fire. Then he rushed back inside again. I didn’t believe him – he’d had the sweep, you see, so I assumed he was … well … intoxicated.’

  She pursed her lips in prim disapproval, and regarded Lonsdale with bright little eyes. Lonsdale was bemused.

  ‘He called for help because his house was on fire, and you thought he was drunk? And what does the sweep have to do with it?’

  She sighed impatiently, and when she spoke, it was slowly, like an adult to a backward child. ‘Mr Donovan had his chimney cleaned last week. People’s chimneys don’t catch fire after the sweep has been, because he removes the soot that causes fires.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lonsdale, although he still failed to understand why Donovan’s claim that his house was on fire had led her to conclude that he was drunk. Suspecting they would become pointlessly sidetracked if he pressed the matter, he moved on. ‘So Mr Donovan’s home is one of those burning?’

  She nodded. ‘Number twenty-four – the left of the two in the middle. Anyway, I went back in the kitchen and put it from my mind. Then Molly Evans from next door came running and said there was smoke pouring from Mr Donovan’s roof. We sent her boy for the fire brigade, while her Bert tried to break down the door to get Mr Donovan out.’

  ‘Did he succeed?’ asked Lonsdale. The house now was little more than a dark silhouette among the leaping yellow flames. The breeze sent sparks fluttering towards the crowd, which stepped back with a collective gasp of alarm.

  The woman scanned the onlookers, then turned back to Lonsdale. ‘I don’t think so. I can’t see him here, and he wouldn’t go off while his house burned, would he?’

  ‘I imagine not,’ replied Lonsdale, although experience had taught him that people did all manner of strange things in fraught situations. ‘What happened next?’

  Her husband took up the tale. He did not look at Lonsdale, but addressed his words to the flames, which reflected yellow and orange in the shiny buttons of his railwayman’s uniform.

  ‘I was coming home from work, when I saw Bert kicking at Patrick Donovan’s door. By then, flames were pouring out of the windows. Funnily, the door was shut fast – locked or bolted. Then I saw the fire had spread to number twenty-two, so Bert and I ran to help Joe Francis with his chairs.’

  He nodded towards the man who stood disconsolately with what he and his neighbours had managed to salvage.

  ‘So Mr Donovan is still inside?’ asked Lonsdale in horror, astonished that they should abandon their efforts to save a life in order to rescue furniture. ‘What about his family? Are they in there, too?

  He gazed at where the flames had seared the paint from the door, and envisaged the hapless residents crawling towards it with cinders and flames erupting all around them, only to find it blocked, and then dying in the knowledge that safety was but a few feet away.

  ‘He lives alone,’ replied the woman. ‘He isn’t married and his father passed away last summer.’

  ‘You said you returned to your baking after Mr Donovan first raised the alarm,’ said Lonsdale, considering her story in the careful, analytical way that had proven successful for him, both in the Colonial Service and at his newspaper. ‘While he ran back inside his house.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the woman. Her voice became unfriendly. ‘To salvage his belongings, I suppose. What of it?’

  ‘So where are they?’ asked Lonsdale.

  The woman scanned the road, saw the proprietorial way each small pile of possessions was jealously guarded by its owners, and shrugged. ‘He probably didn’t have time to bring anything out.’

  ‘But you suggested there were several minutes between him first shouting for help and Mrs Evans telling you the fire was out of control,’ Lonsdale pointed out. ‘Surely he should have managed to save something, even if only a painting or a book?’

  The woman frowned, disliking his questions. ‘Well, obviously he didn’t.’

  Lonsdale moved away, watching the firemen battle on as the steam engine on their pump spat and hissed furiously. Down the street, more residents were taking the precaution of dragging their belongings outside. Lonsdale went to help an elderly woman with a table, then stood by helplessly while she wept in distress and shock. He stood next to her, knowing he was supposed to be observing, not joining in, and wondered if he would ever possess the cynical indifference that seemed necessary to make a good reporter.

  Fires were not uncommon in a city where coal and wood were used to heat homes, and London blazes regularly caused loss of life and possessions. Donovan’s tale, though pitiful, was hardly front-page news. Still, W. T. Stead, the flamboyant assistant editor of The Pall Mall Gazette, was always on the lookout for thrilling, sensational, or tragic tales that would attract readers away from the dignified morning dailies, so there was generally a place for ‘human interest’ pieces.

  Lonsdale rummaged in his pocket for his pencil and notebook, and began to write:

  Tragedy struck today at the home of Patrick Donovan of 24 Wyndham Street, when a blocked chimney resulted in a fire so intense that it not only destroyed the adjoining house but threatened to engulf other homes as well.

  He frowned at what he had written. Donovan’s neighbour had said the chimney had recently been swept, so the fire being caused by a blocked flue was unlikely. So perhaps the sweep had left a brush in the chimney. It would not be the first time incompetence had brought about a tragedy. He continued writing.

  Neighbours valiantly tried to smash through the door to save Mr Donovan’s life, but to no avail.

  He frowned again. Was Donovan still inside, or had he managed to leave via the back door or a window? That Donovan had escaped seemed more plausible than that he had rushed into the street howling that his house was on fire, and then allowed himself to become trapped inside. And if he had run back to salvage his belongings, the absence of so much as a stick of furniture was puzzling. It seemed unlikely that Donovan would have been completely unsuccessful, especially as the woman had assumed he was drunk specifically because she had seen no evidence of fire.

  Lonsdale walked to the end of the street, turned the corner, and looked to his right. Running parallel to Wyndham Street was a narrow alley, where more firemen struggled in the swirling smoke. No belongings stood outside, nor – he ascertained from another neighbour – did Donovan.

  Lonsdale returned to Wyndham Street. Dozens of spectators were there now – servants, street vendors, well-dressed gentlemen, and the respectable working classes who lived nearby. They stood elbow to elbow, winter-pale faces lit orange in the flames, their mouths hanging open as they gazed upwards. They oohed and aahed as the flames crackled and snapped. A few cast sympathetic glances at the bewildered victims, but most just watched with fascination.

  Eventually, the firemen began to win the battle. The flames were less intense, and there was more steam than smoke. Most of the small, pleasant houses in Wyndham Street would be saved.

  ‘You a reporter?’

/>   The soft voice, close to Lonsdale’s ear, startled him, and he turned around quickly. The woman who had spoken flinched away from his sudden movement, and looked as though she might bolt. She cast a fearful glance behind her. Lonsdale glanced at the pencil and pad in his hand and thought the question was spurious. Who else made notes at such an incident?

  ‘I write for The Pall Mall Gazette,’ he said.

  ‘The Pall Mall Gazette? That’s not a big paper, is it, not like The Daily Telegraph?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘It’s aimed at an evening audience, not a morning one.’

  She regarded him sceptically, as if wondering who had time to waste reading a paper at night, when darkness brought the opportunity for more interesting activities. ‘Well, it doesn’t sound as good for me purposes as one of them big jobs, but I suppose it’ll do.’

  She glanced around again, making Lonsdale wonder what ‘purposes’ could necessitate such furtive behaviour.

  ‘Are you one of Mr Donovan’s neighbours?’ he asked.

  It was a question designed to begin a conversation, rather than for information, as he already knew the answer: the Wyndham Street residents were solidly upper working class, decent, clean, and dogged adherents of social convention. The woman before him had a pale, thin face, plastered with make-up; her body emanated a stale, unwashed smell, and her clothes were cheap and ostentatious. She was not the kind of person who could afford a home on Wyndham Street, nor one who would be accepted by its residents.

  ‘Never you mind,’ she replied, and fixed hard, calculating eyes on Lonsdale in a way that made her seem older than her years. ‘All you need to know is that I got sommat to tell you.’

  ‘About the fire?’ asked Lonsdale when she fell silent again.

  ‘Donovan ain’t the first,’ she blurted. ‘He ain’t the first to die like this. And there’ll be others. You have to do sommat! The police won’t listen, so you got to help.’

  ‘You mean other people have been killed in house fires?’ asked Lonsdale, bemused by the tirade.

  ‘No!’ she cried, and then looked around quickly, as if concerned that her outburst might attract attention. ‘In other ways. Donovan is at least the sixth.’

  ‘Donovan may have escaped. Just because he isn’t here, doesn’t mean he’s dead.’ Lonsdale felt sorry for her; she was clearly distressed and frightened over something.

  ‘He’s dead,’ said the woman firmly. ‘But I ain’t talking here. They’re watching me. Meet me tonight. Regent’s Park – between the drinking fountain on Broad Walk and the bandstand. Eight o’clock; it’ll be dark by then. I’ll bring someone who’ll answer all your questions, and you can bring this to an end.’

  ‘Bring what to an end?’ asked Lonsdale, bemused by the stream of instructions. ‘Why can’t you tell me now? No one can harm you. It’s broad daylight.’

  She shot him a look that bespoke utter disbelief, and hurried away, head down. Not sure that meeting the woman and her associate in the dark of Regent’s Park was an arrangement he intended to honour, Lonsdale followed, catching her arm.

  ‘I have an appointment tonight,’ he lied. ‘Can we meet another time? Tomorrow perhaps, during the day?’

  She grimaced. ‘Tomorrow night then – same time and place.’

  ‘At least give me some indication as to what it’s about,’ he said, smiling in the hope of reassuring her. ‘You’ll forgive me if I’m a little … cautious.’

  A tired, sardonic grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. ‘Most men don’t baulk when I ask ’em to meet me at night. But if you’re too scared to take a chance, while I risk me life, then you ain’t a man I want to trust anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean, “risk your life”?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘Is someone threatening you?’

  ‘You could say that. Will you meet me, then, to hear a story so horrible that you won’t believe it?’

  ‘If it’s that incredible, my editor won’t print it,’ retorted Lonsdale.

  ‘We’ll give you proof. Names, dates, places; whatever you need. Will you come? You won’t regret it.’

  Lonsdale nodded, although the rational part of his mind told him he was a fool to make an assignation with this fidgety, furtive woman in an area that was usually deserted after dark. She gave the briefest of smiles, then turned to stride away, but collided with a policeman, who had been watching their exchange with interest.

  ‘Now, then, Cath Walker,’ he said, regarding her coolly. ‘Not plying your trade with me standing right next to you, are you?’ He was a large man, broad-chested and heavy-bellied, with a livid scar slicing through one eyebrow.

  She gazed at him in horror, backing away until she stumbled. Then she turned and fled, tearing blindly down the lane. The policeman watched her go.

  ‘Brazen,’ he muttered.

  ‘She’s a prostitute?’ asked Lonsdale, although he had assumed as much.

  ‘An unfortunate, sir,’ corrected the policeman primly, using the expression coined for the thousands of women who sold the last resource they could call their own. ‘However, she usually works south of the river. Did she proposition you?’

  Had she? In light of the policeman’s confirmation, Lonsdale found himself uncertain as to what her intentions had been.

  ‘Not as such,’ he hedged.

  The policeman wanted to press him further, but was interrupted by calls from outside Donovan’s house. Several onlookers were signalling for him to assist three firemen, who were passing something through the gap where the window had once been in the now-smouldering house. A second policeman appeared at the other end of the street and headed for the firemen.

  Lonsdale turned back to the first officer, and was startled to see him hurrying away. He turned the corner and disappeared.

  Lonsdale blinked. Why would he dart away from a place where he was needed? He considered giving chase, but something was happening in the street – a body being carried from the Donovan house. The crowd fell silent as it was laid on the ground.

  ‘Is this him?’ asked a fireman, looking around at them. ‘Is this Patrick Donovan?’

  ‘How can we tell?’ retorted an elderly woman who clutched a shawl around her thin shoulders. The body – sizzling slightly as rain evaporated upon hitting it – was blackened beyond recognition. Its fists were clenched and raised, like a boxer defending himself, and its legs slightly bent. And the head had been crushed.

  ‘What do you want us to do with him, officer?’ the fireman asked the policeman, whose pale, youthful face made it clear that he had not had occasion to deal with such an incident before.

  ‘My sergeant will be here soon,’ he replied hoarsely, before stepping forward to cover the body with his cape. ‘Then we’ll take him to the mortuary.’

  ‘Check his leg,’ suggested the old woman. ‘Mr Donovan lost a kneecap a few years back, when he was kicked by a horse. If that body has one kneecap, then it’s poor Mr Donovan.’

  The fireman raised his eyebrows at the policeman, inviting him to do it, but the youngster only produced his pocketbook and began to write.

  ‘One kneecap,’ he murmured. His hands were unsteady, and Lonsdale felt sorry for him.

  ‘I’ll look then, shall I?’ asked the fireman mildly. ‘We’ve got to do it now, because we’ll have to look for another body if this isn’t him.’

  The policeman nodded, with his attention wholly fixed on his writing. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Which kneecap?’ asked the fireman. ‘Left or right?’

  ‘Well, Mr North?’ asked the old woman of the railway guard, who stood with his sharp-eyed wife at the edge of the crowd. ‘You were in and out of his house, when he was laid up with his bad leg.’

  North swallowed, uncomfortable with being the centre of attention. ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered nervously. ‘It was one of the two.’

  The fireman bent to poke about the dead man’s legs. Tactfully, he shielded what he was doing with his own body, while the crowd seemed torn between the desire to w
atch, and an urge to look elsewhere.

  Eventually, he stood, wiping his hands on the sides of his tunic. ‘Left,’ he said, letting the cape fall over the black shape on the ground. ‘Patrick Donovan was missing his left kneecap.’

  ‘So, you were wrong then, Alec,’ said Jack Lonsdale, eyeing his younger brother thoughtfully later that day.

  They were in the morning room of Jack’s house, a large, airy, first-floor chamber dominated by an elegant, but very scratched, table at one end, and a sofa and several worn chairs near the fireplace at the other. Books lay on the table and the floor, which was partly covered by a handsome red-brown rug. Lonsdale loved the morning room’s shabby comfort, although Jack’s fiancée loathed it, and he knew its scruffy, masculine décor would be one of the first things to go once she was installed as mistress of the house.

  The second thing to go would be Lonsdale himself. He had moved into the house – a fine, six-storeyed affair in Cleveland Square, Bayswater – upon his return to London the previous year, after years of hopping around Africa: Zanzibar, the Gold Coast, the Cape Colony, Natal. Despite Jack’s belief that working for a newspaper was an ungentlemanly occupation, he had insisted that his brother stay with him. But Lonsdale could hardly continue to live on Jack’s hospitality once his brother was married, and Emelia would no more want him in her home than Lonsdale would want to impose. Lonsdale and Emelia were uneasy together, and only a mutual affection for Jack kept them outwardly civil to each other.

  Jack flung himself down in a chair, oblivious to the way it groaned under his weight. The family resemblance between the two men was immediately apparent, although Lonsdale had flecks of grey in his dark hair, while Jack’s mop was solidly mid-brown. Their eyes were blue-grey and both had a sportsman’s physique, although Jack had recently noticed a thickening around his middle, something he attributed to approaching the end of his fourth decade rather than the frequent and lavish dinners at his club. His fashionable sideburns were the only facial hair either wore.