‘You were wrong,’ Jack said again. ‘You thought Donovan might have escaped through the back door, but he died in his house.’
‘So it seems,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Although it makes no sense – if Donovan knew his house was burning, why did he die inside?’
‘That’s obvious,’ said Jack, using his pompous barrister voice. ‘He went to salvage his belongings and was overcome by fumes. This reporter business has affected your objectivity. You look for mysteries, when there’s nothing but simple tragedy.’
‘Donovan’s neighbours said they tried to batter down the front door, but it was locked or bolted. Why would he secure the door when his house was on fire?’
‘He probably didn’t,’ said Jack, picking up a morning paper and reaching for his spectacles. ‘Some piece of timber, loosened by the flames, doubtless fell across it.’
‘In that case, why didn’t he escape through the back door?’
‘Maybe he was unconscious,’ said Jack, opening The Times and shaking it out. ‘Smoke can render one insensible very quickly.’
‘But Donovan’s neighbours didn’t notice the fire immediately, so it can’t have been so serious when he first raised the alarm. That means that he did have time to do something. And if his possessions were so dear to him, why weren’t any outside?’
‘Just because he didn’t succeed in saving his property, doesn’t mean to say he didn’t form the intent to do so,’ said Jack, sounding much as he did in court.
He cast his eye down the morning’s news. Lonsdale was sure his brother did not need to wear spectacles, but there was no denying that they lent him an air of authority. Jack looked like a barrister without them, dressed in sober suits and immaculate cravats, but with them he looked like the personification of the Old Bailey itself. Lonsdale supposed that if he had committed a crime and saw John Lonsdale QC coming to represent him, he would have high hopes of getting away with it.
‘The more I think about it, the more I feel this prostitute really does know something odd,’ Lonsdale said, tilting his head to read the back of Jack’s paper.
The Times was lowered, and Jack’s disapproving face appeared over the top of it. ‘What she knows is how to rob foolish men who meet her in dark parks. I’m glad you are dining with me tonight – it saved you from your own stupidity. If I’d known this reporting lark would entail meeting harlots in remote places, I’d have stopped you from starting it.’
Lonsdale was silent. Jack could not have stopped anything of the sort, but he did not want to argue. Jack’s nose went back into his paper, while Lonsdale read on the back of it that the fatal shooting of Jesse James was deemed ‘cowardly’ by much of the American public.
The newspaper was lowered censoriously. ‘Either buy your own paper or wait until I’ve finished,’ Jack said stiffly, bringing up an ancient and familiar grievance. ‘I can’t stand it when you try to read mine at the same time.’
Lonsdale stood and went to the window, where he watched a group of children with their nannies career across the road to the gardens opposite, oblivious to the drizzle. He stared absently at the raindrops on the glass.
Jack was right, of course. There was no reason to suppose that Donovan’s death was anything other than accidental, regardless of what Cath Walker had claimed. But it nagged him: a man running into a blazing house does not secure the door behind him if he intends to come out again. Perhaps that was it: suicide. But then why raise the alarm?
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Jack, suddenly sitting bolt upright. ‘Have you read the obituaries today?’
‘Not yet.’ Lonsdale had been up early to visit the site of what was expected to be called Eastcheap Station, as part of a series he was writing on a new underground railway line, and then he had gone to the Zoological Gardens. After the fire, he had only just finished rubbing the smell of smoke from his hair with a scented towel when Jack had arrived home, and he had spent the next hour in an unsuccessful attempt to convince his brother that Donovan’s death was suspicious.
‘Charles Darwin died yesterday,’ Jack said. ‘There’s a blow! Few men have contributed as much to modern thinking as Darwin.’
‘Not everyone would agree.’ Lonsdale went to scan the story over Jack’s shoulder. ‘A good number of churchmen, for a start.’
‘Ignorant men,’ declared Jack, waving his paper dismissively, at least in part to prevent his brother from reading it. ‘Individuals whose faith is too flimsy to withstand intellectual probing.’
Lonsdale tuned out what soon became a tirade and read for himself, reaching out to hold it:
Exactly a year to a day has separated the deaths of two of the most powerful men of this century. On 19 April 1881, the civilized world held its breath at the news of the death of former Prime Minister Disraeli. Not less must be the effect when the announcement of the death of Charles Darwin flashes over the face of that Earth whose secrets he has done more than any other to reveal …
‘How true this is,’ said Jack, tapping the paper for emphasis and jerking it from Lonsdale’s fingers in the process. ‘Natural selection is one of the most brilliant concepts in the history of science.’
‘You approve, then?’ asked Lonsdale wryly. For a man of law, Jack’s world was remarkably black and white. Theories were either brilliant or worthless, and the men who postulated them either geniuses or drooling imbeciles.
‘We shall never see another man of science like Darwin,’ averred Jack with utter conviction. ‘He was the greatest thinker in the country.’
‘What about Charles Lyell?’ asked Lonsdale wickedly. ‘Or James Clerk Maxwell?’
‘Them, too,’ said Jack, realizing his brother could probably list another half dozen men, all equally significant. ‘But you shouldn’t be here – you should be at your paper, writing a piece on Darwin. After all, you met him once, which is more than your colleagues can claim.’
‘Did I?’ asked Lonsdale, astonished. ‘When?’
‘At the Royal Geographical Society outing two years ago,’ replied Jack. ‘How could you have forgotten?’
‘Probably because I was in Natal at the time. You must have gone with someone else.’
Jack raised the newspaper again. The silence meant that he knew he had been mistaken, but was unwilling to admit it. Yet he was right about one thing: Darwin’s death was a major event, and it was indeed time that Lonsdale made an appearance at the office.
The Pall Mall Gazette was located on Northumberland Street, a mean little by-way off the Strand that was more alley than road. Number Two was a tall, grubby building with the name of the newspaper strewn like a banner below the top floor windows. Lonsdale hurried inside, glancing uneasily, as he always did, at the huge lamp that hung over the dingy front entrance. He expected that one day it would fall and kill someone.
A dark, narrow staircase led to the first floor, where there were four offices: the editor’s, the assistant editor’s, one shared by the sub-editors, and one for all the reporters. The door to the editor’s office was open, but the leather seat in which John Morley sat while dispensing orders to his minions was empty.
Next door, assistant editor W. T. Stead slouched with his back to his desk and his feet on the mantelpiece, tossing balls of paper at a stuffed bear head that hung on the wall. He looked as though he were idling, but his reporters knew that some of his most brilliant thinking was done while he appeared to be wasting time. As Lonsdale passed the door, one of Stead’s missiles bounced off his shoulder.
‘Lonsdale!’ Stead leapt to his feet with customary vigour as Lonsdale poked his head around the door. ‘The article on the zoo. Can it go in the last edition?’
Guiltily, Lonsdale realized that he had not given it a thought since the fire. ‘I’m due to meet Dr Wilson at seven tomorrow evening,’ he replied evasively. ‘It’ll be ready first thing Saturday.’
Stead cocked his head to one side and regarded Lonsdale appraisingly. ‘You were supposed to meet him this morning. Did his secretary tell you he was
indisposed?’
Stead saw his reporter’s surprise and grinned teeth flashing white through the tangle of reddish-brown beard that had been growing wilder since Christmas. He twisted around and tossed one of his paper balls at the bear, scoring a direct hit.
‘Wilson will be at his club tomorrow night,’ he said, tearing up a well-thumbed copy of The Morning Post to make more ammunition. ‘If his secretary said Wilson would meet you at the Zoological Gardens at seven on a Friday night, he was being naughty.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Wilson visits the Garrick Club every Friday,’ replied Stead. He grinned again. ‘Listen to everything you’re told, Lonsdale, and forget nothing. That’s what’ll make you a good reporter, not the ability to pen a story – any monkey can do that. Make yourself familiar with the people you interview, so you always have the advantage.’
Lonsdale nodded gloomily. ‘So I should stand outside the Garrick and ambush him as he enters?’
‘No need! Ambrose Harris is a member of the Garrick. He’ll sign you in.’
‘He won’t,’ said Lonsdale, startled. ‘I know him only slightly, like him less, and he would no more sign me into his club than I would sign him into mine.’
‘Now, now,’ said Stead cheerfully. ‘Poor gauche Harris cannot help not having been raised as a gentleman.’
‘Perhaps not, but he can certainly help being employed by The New York Herald.’
Stead laughed. ‘It’s a dreadful rag, I agree, but its sensationalism seems to be what makes a successful newspaper in New York. However, we digress. I shall arrange for Harris to sign you into the Garrick tomorrow, and you can tackle Wilson there. I want this zoo story – wild animals are popular at the moment, and people are of a mind to visit them in their time off.’ He saw Lonsdale’s distaste. ‘I know Harris isn’t a decent man’s choice of company, but we all must make sacrifices.’
He sat at his desk and waved a hand to indicate that Lonsdale should sit also. There was no other chair, but there were piles of newspapers, so Lonsdale perched on one. Stead watched him thoughtfully.
The Pall Mall Gazette did not have a large staff, and one of its senior reporters had recently announced his intention to retire. It was common knowledge that there were three candidates for the post, but it was likely that the choice would be between Lonsdale and another freelance reporter – or ‘liner’ as they were known – by the name of Henry Voules. Lonsdale wrote well, was a meticulous researcher, learned fast, and was pleasant company. Voules was none of these things, but was the nephew of the paper’s business manager and a friend of the owner, both of whom approved of Voules’s social connections through his aristocratic mother. It would be a difficult decision, and Stead was not sure the right one would be made.
While he listened to Lonsdale outline the zoo article, Stead collected spent missiles from underneath the bear. He appeared distracted, but he missed nothing that was said. He liked Lonsdale, and felt his experiences with the Colonial Service lent a unique angle to his writing. He had assigned him to cover several stories in a manner frowned upon by most British papers and that had drawn the derogatory term ‘investigative reporter’ from Morley, the editor. But Morley wisely allowed Stead ample independence in pursuing stories with social significance, and Stead used the success of these articles to support Lonsdale for the upcoming post.
‘What about the weekly progress report on the underground railway?’ Stead asked. ‘Is it ready?’
‘The chief engineer says it will open as planned, despite delays over some skeletons that were found. Apparently, the tunnel went through an old plague pit, and the men refused to work when they were uncovered until the bones had been removed. A whole day was lost.’
‘Excellent!’ exclaimed Stead ghoulishly. ‘Buried corpses make more interesting reading than the tonnage of excavated earth.’
‘They were reburied in the nearest churchyard,’ continued Lonsdale. ‘The vicar held a memorial service for them.’
‘This underground train system,’ mused Stead, fixing Lonsdale with his unsettling blue eyes. ‘Will it supersede the hansom and the trolley bus?’
‘Never,’ declared Lonsdale with conviction. ‘It drops you where there’s a station, and you have to take a hansom to get where you want to go anyway.’
‘True,’ agreed Stead. ‘We can safely say that there will always be hansom cabs in London.’
‘And we’ve all been on the Metropolitan underground railway,’ Lonsdale went on with a shudder. ‘Not everyone likes the noise, steam, dirt, and darkness – especially when there are more comfortable modes of transport.’
‘I most certainly haven’t used it,’ announced Stead vehemently. ‘And nor shall I. I’m all for progress, but not progress into the bowels of the Earth on an infernal machine that stinks of oil and screams like a banshee. Besides, we must think of the social ramifications: what would our friend the tramcar driver do if his livelihood were stolen by steam?’
‘Become our friend the underground-railway driver?’
Stead began lining up his paper balls on the edge of the desk. ‘Would you ask them to exchange a life in God’s clean air for one labouring in the conditions of Hades?’
Lonsdale saw the gleam of fanaticism in Stead’s eyes, and decided not to mention that few places in the world were as afflicted by a lack of ‘God’s clean air’ as London.
‘Never!’ cried Stead when there was no reply. He slapped the desk with his palm. ‘I shall see that such a monstrous thing never happens! Don’t forget, Lonsdale, the mission of the press is to lead the struggle for the betterment of our society. It should give voice to the aspirations of the inarticulate classes and guide public opinion. That’s what God’s purpose is for us!’
Lonsdale was used to these tirades. ‘Your tram drivers are safe enough. But where is everyone? Out working on pieces about Darwin?’
‘Most of them,’ said Stead, retrieving the balls of paper that had scattered when he hit his desk. ‘Although Milner is interviewing Mr Parnell about the prospects of being released from gaol and what is being done to calm Ireland – you know Mr Morley likes to dedicate at least a page a day to the Irish Problem. But returning to you, tell me about the fire you witnessed today.’
Lonsdale blinked his surprise. ‘Do you have spies in every quarter? Or is there still a smell of burning on my coat?’
Stead laughed. ‘You reek of it. Was it a case of arson? I heard there was a tremendous inferno at a warehouse in London Pool.’
‘Nothing so exciting – just a house fire in Wyndham Street.’
‘What happened to attract your interest? Were there casualties?’
Lonsdale nodded. ‘A man called Patrick Donovan died, although …’
He hesitated, recalling how Jack had dismissed his suspicions. But Stead nodded encouragingly and listened intently as Lonsdale outlined his thoughts, ending with the invitation by Cath Walker to meet her in Regent’s Park.
‘Will you honour this mysterious assignation, considering that you risked losing the story by being unwilling to go tonight?’ asked Stead. He sounded critical, but he had ceased to collect paper balls, a sure sign that he was intrigued.
‘I can’t go tomorrow, either, if I’m to meet Wilson at the Garrick.’
‘You will meet Wilson at seven and your lady at eight,’ determined Stead. ‘I’ll send a message to Harris, warning him not to be late.’
‘So you think I should go? I’m intrigued, but I’d almost decided it isn’t worth the risk.’
‘Only you can determine how important it is to follow a particular story,’ preached Stead. ‘Meanwhile, write your account of the fire. Don’t speculate on foul play. When you finish, go to the Metropolitan Police mortuary and ask for Dr Robert Bradwell. He’ll probably be doing the post mortem. Now go, or you’ll miss the deadline.’
Lonsdale opened the door to the reporters’ office, and headed for one of the tables. The office was stained brown from years of pipe- and cigar-puf
fing: its walls were brown, the floor was brown, and the ceiling was brown. It stank of tobacco smoke, wet overcoats, and ink, but a small fire cast a cosy glow around the room.
Lonsdale liked the reporters’ office, as well as most of the people who worked in it. It ran on the same schedule as the newspaper. Before each edition was ‘put to bed’, it was a hive of frantic activity, as writers dashed off last-minute stories, while print-boys waited to snatch them away before the ink was dry, and tear upstairs to the waiting compositors. At other times, it had an air of jovial somnolence, as the reporters relaxed and told tall tales.
That day, only three others were there. Hulda Friederichs was writing furiously, Edward Cook was editing his copy while standing next to the one small window for extra light, and Henry Voules was surrounded by an impressive pile of tomes, through which he was lethargically riffling.
‘Our Cambridge man,’ sneered Voules unpleasantly. ‘Come to make sure we don’t split our infinitives, have you?’
Lonsdale declined to rise to the bait and only nodded at the books. ‘Catching up on natural selection?’
Voules scowled and failed to reply, so Hulda answered for him. ‘He needs to summarize Darwin’s scientific achievements in less than a page,’ she explained, ‘which means he must do something at which he does not excel – original work.’
‘Then why don’t you do it?’ asked Lonsdale, surprised. ‘You once told me you’d read most of Darwin’s work.’
Hulda looked smug, and pretended not to notice Voules’s glower of outrage that he was obliged to spend his afternoon wading though Darwin’s works, when she might have dashed off a summary in a few moments. Gloatingly, she waved a piece of paper in the air.
‘Do you think readers will be more interested in musings on Darwin’s theories or in the confession of the murderer Lamson to his Wandsworth Prison guard last night?’ she asked. ‘A story exclusive to The PMG.’
Mind of a Killer Page 3