Lonsdale knew that the most sensible course of action would be to leave, but he surmised that if Cath’s friends were there, so was she. And he was going to find her. He ignored the still-prostrate attacker and strode to the bushes, listening intently. There was a soft sound, like a moan, then all was silent. He pushed aside an overhanging branch, but could see nothing. He grabbed a stick and began prodding in the undergrowth, aiming to flush her out.
‘Cath! I know you’re—’
He stopped as his foot encountered something soft. He knelt and reached out. His fingers encountered something warm and sticky, and he withdrew them with a sharp intake of breath. Blood! He struggled to light a match. It had barely flared into life before he dropped it in shock, plunging him into darkness once more. Cursing his unsteady hands, he lit another. Lying on her side in the long grass was Cath Walker. He reached out and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. It was still warm, although the gaping wound in her throat and the glassy-eyed stare confirmed she was dead.
He sat back on his heels in bewilderment. Then the flame burned his fingers and brought him to his senses. He stood and hurried back towards the place he had been attacked, aiming to lay hold of the second assailant. But the place was deserted.
Hoping to find a constable, Lonsdale ran back to the Broad Walk, as he knew the police patrolled it at night. As he skidded to a halt on the muddy gravel, a man wearing a top hat shot him a nervous look and hurried on. Lonsdale looked around wildly, then spotted the distinctive domed hat of a policeman in the distance. He tore towards him.
‘There’s a dead woman in the bushes near the bandstand,’ he gasped, seizing the constable’s arm. ‘I think she’s been murdered.’
The constable was young, and excitement suffused his face at the prospect of a vicious crime to explore. He whipped out his rattle and whirled it furiously to attract colleagues within hearing distance. Then he raced off towards the bandstand. Not knowing what else to do, Lonsdale followed, although his thoughts reeled and his head ached. He raised one hand to his head and felt a tender spot where the stone had hit him.
‘She’s dead!’ yelled the policeman, when Lonsdale had directed him to the spot where the body of Cath Walker lay.
‘Yes,’ said Lonsdale tiredly. ‘She was a—’
‘Murder!’ bellowed the policeman, accompanying a frantic and ineffective search of the bushes with more violent shaking of his rattle. Eventually, his colleagues began to arrive. A sergeant took control, while the youngster was posted to the Broad Walk to search for witnesses. Suddenly exhausted, Lonsdale sank down, his back against the metal railing and his chin on his knees.
‘What happened, sir?’ called the sergeant, swiping through the undergrowth with vigorous sweeps of his truncheon. ‘A lovers’ tiff that ended in violence?’
‘It most certainly was not,’ replied Lonsdale indignantly. ‘The woman was a prostitute.’
‘I didn’t mean between you and her, sir,’ said the sergeant placidly. ‘I meant between her and him.’ He pushed back a bush to reveal a second crumpled figure lying in the wet leaves. ‘There are two corpses here, sir, not just one.’
Within the hour, one Inspector George Peters – a lean, spare man whose droopy moustache served to enhance his resemblance to an elderly spaniel – appeared. He ordered the area cordoned off and the search of the bushes abandoned until daylight. Then he turned to questioning Lonsdale.
Unfortunately, the attack had happened fast and a long way from the nearest light, so Lonsdale was unable to furnish much of a description of his assailants. All he could say was they were smaller than him, and had worn dark clothes.
‘Really?’ asked Peters coolly. ‘It may have escaped your notice, Mr Lonsdale, but most men wear dark clothes. Unless they are performing in music halls.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Lonsdale rubbed his eyes. ‘It all happened so fast. One minute I was calling the prostitute’s name, and the next they were all over me.’
‘They had knives, you say?’
‘One had a knife. The other threw a stone.’
‘And where is this stone now?’ asked Peters.
Lonsdale stared at him incredulously. ‘I don’t know. On the ground, I imagine. Why?’
Peters shrugged, and with a shock Lonsdale realized that the inspector did not believe a word he was saying. He wondered how to convince the man. He had no desire for a sojourn in police custody until he could contact Jack. But even as he fretted, salvation came in the unlikely form of Robert Bradwell, summoned to inspect the bodies in situ.
‘We meet again,’ Bradwell said, shaking Lonsdale’s hand warmly. ‘Which is more than I can say about my wife. I haven’t been home since I saw you and I’m due at the hospital tonight. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to face her wrath.’ Without further ado, he headed for the bodies. Peters resumed his discussion with Lonsdale, who was feeling wet, cold, and miserable.
‘So, let me summarize,’ said Peters, after Lonsdale had related his story yet again. ‘You came to meet this unfortunate – Cath Walker – in an attempt to discover more about the murder of Patrick Donovan?’
Lonsdale nodded. ‘She said she’d bring someone to answer questions, so we could publish the story in The Pall Mall Gazette and put a stop to it.’
‘I see,’ said Peters. ‘Put a stop to what, exactly?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lonsdale sensed that the more he said, the less convincing he sounded. ‘She claimed Donovan was at least the sixth to have died, although the only one in a fire.’
‘Although remember that Donovan didn’t die in the fire,’ put in Bradwell helpfully, having finished his duties in the bushes. ‘He died because he was strangled.’
‘What?’ blurted Lonsdale. ‘You didn’t mention this yesterday.’
‘I didn’t know it then. After you left, I re-examined the body, and found that Donovan’s hyoid was broken, although the other neck bones were intact. That’s a classic sign of strangulation – as were faint ligature marks in the charred flesh. So, Donovan was strangled, his cerebrum removed, and his skull smashed and his house burned to make his death appear accidental.’
‘Wait,’ said Peters, raising his hand. He turned to Lonsdale, and fixed him with stern eyes. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of printing this in your newspaper?’
‘We never publish details of police investigations without consent,’ said Lonsdale indignantly. ‘We’re not The Echo, you know.’
‘Good,’ said Peters. ‘You may report that there’s been a double murder in the park, but keep this other business to yourself. In fact, I’ll make you an offer – stay silent until I have this matter in hand, and I’ll give you the details twenty-four hours before I release them to any other papers.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Lonsdale, thinking that all he really wanted was to go home and soak away the horrors of the night in a hot bath. ‘I’ll let my editor know.’
‘However, do not take this as permission to begin your own investigation,’ said Peters. ‘That would be most inadvisable.’
‘Why would someone go to such lengths over a person like Donovan?’ asked Bradwell. ‘I can see someone making an effort to disguise the murder of an aristocrat or a politician. But Donovan was a shop assistant.’
‘You’re asking the wrong question,’ said Lonsdale, watching two constables carry Cath away on a stretcher. ‘Instead, consider why someone was so determined to have his cerebrum.’
‘Good point,’ agreed Bradwell, nodding. ‘The fire seems to have been arranged specifically to ensure that no one noticed it had been taken.’
Peters looked from one to the other, his expression deeply sceptical. ‘But who would have a penchant for … a cerebrum did you call it? Whoever it might be, if we believe Walker’s claim that Donovan was at least the sixth victim, then he has done rather well for himself. But she was an unfortunate, and, in my experience, such women are not reliable witnesses.’
‘Yet it would be rash to dismiss her, just because o
thers in her profession have lied,’ argued Bradwell. ‘Donovan’s death is odd, and she clearly knew something about it.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Peters, in the bland tone that Lonsdale began to realize was his normal manner of speaking. ‘But it occurs to me that Mr Lonsdale has a very good reason for wanting us to believe someone else might’ve killed this potentially valuable witness.’
Bradwell raised his hand to silence Lonsdale’s immediate protestations. ‘But Lonsdale discussed her claim with me at the mortuary yesterday. He’d hardly have told me he was planning to meet her if he intended to dispatch the woman, would he?’
‘Maybe not,’ hedged Peters, cautiously.
‘I’m telling you the truth,’ Lonsdale said quietly. ‘She said she’d bring proof. Have you searched her body? Perhaps she has something in her pockets that’ll answer your questions.’
‘Of course we searched her body – and that of her friend,’ said Peters, the edge to his voice suggesting that he did not need Lonsdale to tell him how to do his work. ‘There was nothing on either.’ He turned to Bradwell. ‘She claimed another six victims, but surely you would have noticed the absence of a cerebrum in any of your bodies, yes?’
‘I would, of course. However, there is always a possibility that they went to another mortuary. Or were buried secretly. The lack of cerebra in—’
‘The lack of what?’ came a sharply disapproving voice from behind. ‘What in the devil are you talking about?’
‘It seems we may have an overlap between cases, sir,’ said Peters, turning to nod a greeting; Bradwell promptly made himself scarce. ‘Mr Lonsdale, may I introduce Superintendent Ramsey and his assistant, Chief Inspector Leonard.’
Ramsey nodded at Lonsdale but made no attempt to shake hands, although his assistant smiled pleasantly enough. The two officers could not have been more different. The superintendent was tall, aloof and self-important, with a thick, white moustache; his lofty demeanour and elegant dress made him appear more like a member of the House of Lords than a policeman. His assistant was short, thin, and cheerful, and wore a Norfolk jacket and the kind of old-fashioned knickerbockers that Lonsdale was surprised could still be purchased.
‘Mr Lonsdale is assisting us with our enquiries,’ Peters said. ‘Or would you care to take charge of the case?’
‘Hardly, George!’ laughed Leonard. ‘The superintendent has more important—’
‘Every murder is important,’ Ramsey interrupted pompously. ‘It doesn’t matter if the victim is a Member of Parliament or an unfortunate. I’ll maintain a watch on it, but the case is yours, Peters. Now tell us what happened.’
Both officers listened as Peters gave them a summary. Leonard shook his head in silent compassion, while Ramsey’s sallow face remained expressionless. When Peters mentioned the mutilation of Donovan, Ramsey gave a shudder of disgust.
‘These damned perverts! You put one behind bars, and another appears. London is a veritable breeding ground for them. We need to nip this one in the bud, Peters. I don’t want head-stealing lunatics frightening every decent soul in the city.’
And with that, he turned and strode away, not deigning to acknowledge the salutes of his constables. Leonard shot Peters an apologetic smile and made a hurried offer of help before hurrying after him.
‘You may be reading too much into this, Bradwell,’ said Peters when Bradwell reappeared, continuing the discussion as though the two officers had not interrupted. He pulled a pipe from his pocket and began to tamp it with tobacco. ‘You’re trying to intellectualize what might be a simple, brutish crime.’
‘Simple?’ echoed Bradwell. ‘Someone went to a good deal of trouble to try to make me miss the fact that Donovan had been strangled and mutilated. It wasn’t simple, Inspector, although I concur it was brutal.’
Peters was thoughtful. ‘How about this for an explanation,’ he began, puffing billows of white smoke into the still night air. ‘Donovan was strangled over some private grudge, and his body mutilated as a bizarre form of revenge. When Walker saw Mr Lonsdale making notes at the scene of his death, she saw an opportunity to lure him here to rob him. But her accomplices decided a four-way division of spoils was less attractive than a two-way split, and killed her and her friend. Mr Lonsdale then fought off the remaining two.’
It was a plausible scenario, and Lonsdale could not deny that he had questioned her motives himself. He did not reply, so Peters began to issue orders to his men, instructing them to find out where she had lived and the identity of her companion. While respectable London would soon be retiring to bed, another side of the city would just be waking. It was among them that Peters would concentrate his search.
‘You can give your formal statement tomorrow, Mr Lonsdale,’ he said. ‘Tonight, I’d rather have my men out on the streets looking for the killers.’
‘One of the policemen who attended the fire at Donovan’s house knew Cath Walker,’ said Lonsdale helpfully. ‘He might know where she lived.’
‘There are hundreds of police officers in London,’ said Peters dryly. ‘I don’t suppose you could furnish me with a name?’
‘No, but I can tell you the number he wore on his collar.’
‘Yes?’ Peters looked marginally impressed.
‘Six-nine-six-D.’
Peters stared at him. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked eventually.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Lonsdale, puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘Police Constable Cyril Iverson, number six-nine-six-D, is no longer with the force,’ replied Peters. ‘He disappeared six months ago, while on duty, and hasn’t been seen since. Well, not by us at least. His antics have certainly been reported by a number of other people, however.’
THREE
The background buzz of conversation in the Queen’s Arms and the warm, slightly humid feel of too many people crammed into one room were making Lonsdale drowsy. He leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling, noting it was stained from decades of smoke. The floor was not much better. What had been a handsome red and gold carpet was dulled where booted feet had tracked the muck of the streets across it. The walls, on the other hand, were a rich brown pine boarding, which looked new. Cigar and pipe smoke enveloped all in a thick, hazy pall.
He had already drunk more than was wise, and it proved difficult to bring his attention back to the discussion. It had been Bradwell’s suggestion to continue their conversation in the nearby tavern. Peters had readily agreed, although Lonsdale suspected it was only in the hope of gaining more information. Of course, Lonsdale’s motive was the same – he wanted the opportunity to quiz Peters. And Bradwell? Lonsdale had a suspicion that he was eager to avoid his wife.
All the private bars – the screened-off booths in which patrons had some seclusion – had been full, so the three men had taken a table in a corner of the public bar, surrounded by omnibus drivers, shopkeepers, and labourers.
‘I told you Iverson was ill months ago,’ said Bradwell, as Lonsdale mentally re-entered the conversation. ‘I spoke to his wife, and she told me he often talked about suicide. The poor man is deranged.’
Lonsdale took another sip of the bad port that Bradwell had bought him. ‘So, you think Iverson may have killed Donovan – then dispatched Cath Walker and her companion?’
‘There’s no evidence to say so,’ replied Peters, although it was clear he considered it a possibility.
‘He definitely knew her,’ said Lonsdale. ‘He addressed her by name and asked if she was soliciting. She ran away; I assumed from a prostitute’s natural fear of the police.’
‘Fear?’ snorted Peters. ‘If that were true, our job would be a damned sight easier! These women don’t fear us, Mr Lonsdale. Distrust, perhaps. Loathe, certainly. But fear – no. What can a policeman do other than lock a prostitute up for a few nights in a place where she’ll be warm and fed?’
‘And that’s more than most can expect on the streets,’ put in Bradwell. ‘A policeman’s lot might not be a happy one, but a whore’s is worse.’
/> ‘Cath was afraid,’ said Lonsdale firmly. ‘She almost fell over in her haste to escape.’
‘So describe Iverson,’ ordered Peters. ‘We need to be sure the man you saw was not just someone wearing a uniform bought cheap in a tavern.
Lonsdale considered carefully before replying. ‘He was forty to forty-five years old, and had a large blackish-grey moustache that needed trimming. He had a beer-drinker’s paunch and the mottled skin of a man who likes spirits. He had dark eyes that were watery, and a scar that ran into one eyebrow.’
‘You’re observant,’ remarked Peters. ‘And you’ve a good memory for details.’
‘I met a good many people of low integrity while I was in the Colonial Service,’ said Lonsdale, ‘many of them diplomats. It was as important for me to remember their faces as it is for you to know those of thieves and robbers.’
Peters gave what was almost a smile. His moustache twitched and some teeth made a fleeting appearance beneath it.
‘Iverson’s appearance is very distinctive with that scar,’ said Bradwell, snapping his fingers to attract the attention of a tap-boy and order more drinks. ‘That’s why I’m surprised he hasn’t been caught yet. Would you be offended if I suggested that some of your men might be protecting him, Inspector?’
Peters looked at Lonsdale. ‘Iverson’s scar was earned when he saved another officer from a partially collapsed railway tunnel. Policemen are a loyal breed, and it goes against the grain to betray each other, but Iverson’s case is different. We all know he’s ill, and I don’t think anyone would help him stay free when he should be in a hospital.’
‘What do you mean by “ill” exactly?’ asked Lonsdale.
Peters answered quickly, as though he did not want Bradwell revealing too much. ‘Policemen see some dreadful sights, and he isn’t the first to crack under the strain.’
Mind of a Killer Page 6