Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘But Iverson’s case is more than just cracking under the strain, isn’t it?’ fished Lonsdale. ‘Earlier, you didn’t seem surprised when I told you he’d spoken to Cath, or that he was at the scene of Donovan’s murder.’

  ‘His presence in Wyndham Street doesn’t mean he killed Donovan,’ said Peters.

  ‘Well, I can tell you that he didn’t have a cerebrum with him when we spoke,’ said Lonsdale, then reconsidered. ‘Unless it was in his pocket.’

  ‘The cerebrum is fragile,’ said Bradwell. ‘Ramming it into a pocket would ruin it.’

  ‘Would that matter?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘Perhaps he didn’t intend to keep it, and the excitement lay in its removal.’

  Peters toyed with his glass of four-ale, then raised it to his lips and drained the remainder, standing to leave as he did so.

  ‘I must return to the station,’ he said. He nodded his thanks to Bradwell for the drinks, and then fixed Lonsdale with a stern eye. ‘You’ll remember our agreement? No word of this until I say?’

  Lonsdale nodded.

  Peters sighed. ‘You’d think there was more than enough crime and tragedy in this city to satisfy the press, but they always want more. Take a walk in Whitechapel or Spitalfields, Mr Lonsdale. You’ll see enough to keep your newspaper in tales of scandal, vice, and wickedness for a decade.’

  ‘He’s a cheery soul,’ remarked Lonsdale, watching the inspector thread his way through the crowded bar.

  ‘But a fine detective,’ said Bradwell. ‘Don’t be fooled by that plodding façade. Had he thought you were lying, you’d be in his cells now. I doubt it’ll be too long before your audience will be reading this story; if anyone can get to the bottom of it, Peters can.’

  ‘I assume Cath died from the wound to her throat?’ asked Lonsdale, deciding he had better collect some facts if Peters was as good as Bradwell claimed.

  ‘There was a single slash to her neck, severing the jugular vein and carotid artery on the left side, and slicing through the trachea,’ said Bradwell.

  ‘Is that a common way to kill?’

  ‘Fairly,’ said the surgeon. ‘Cutting a throat is easy and takes very little power. All too often the police assume a killer is male because of its violent nature, but I’m sure a good many are women.’

  ‘What about a theft of a cerebrum?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘Was that committed by a man or woman? I suppose it requires no great strength either.’

  ‘On the contrary, the brain is surrounded by a protective layer of bone, and sawing through it is hard work.’

  ‘Did Cath’s companion die from knife wounds as well?’ asked Lonsdale as they made their way outside, to stand with their hands in their pockets in the cold night.

  ‘No,’ said Bradwell. ‘He was probably poisoned with arsenic.’

  Lonsdale stared at him in astonishment. A crowd of drunken dockers staggered past, cheering and laughing. Behind them were three women with hard, calculating eyes, doggedly keeping pace with men who would soon be in no position to decline an offer of their services. One gave Lonsdale and Bradwell a speculative glance, but evidently decided the pickings would be better with the rowdy wharfmen.

  ‘Arsenic? But that makes no sense!’

  ‘Yet it’s true, because the body displayed all the characteristic signs of arsenic poisoning, and I recognized the smell of it in his mouth.’

  ‘But how, for God’s sake?’

  Bradwell shrugged. ‘As I told you before, I present the facts to the police and leave them to do the speculating.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m taking a hansom to Bart’s Hospital. I’d offer you a lift, but I doubt you live Clerkenwell way.’

  ‘Other direction.’ Lonsdale held out his hand to the doctor. ‘Let’s hope that the next time we meet will be in more pleasant circumstances.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ sighed Bradwell. ‘I seldom meet anyone in pleasant circumstances.’

  The next morning, Lonsdale woke with a bruise over one eye and a stiff shoulder to remind him of the previous night’s events. He left before Jack could see it, and took a cab to Marylebone Lane police station, where he dictated his statement to a sergeant with the largest handlebar moustache he had ever seen. He then walked briskly to The PMG’s offices, ascending the rickety wooden staircase to the first floor in the hope of finding Stead. There was a thick cloud of dust outside the reporters’ office, and voices were raised in protest. Intrigued, Lonsdale poked his head around the door.

  The formidable Hulda Friederichs stood on a stool in the centre of the room armed with a rag tied to a long stick. She was flailing at the ribbons of cobwebs that hung like stalactites from the ceiling, bringing down flakes of ancient brown paint as she did so. Her colleagues cried their objections, but Hulda was not a woman to be deterred by mere words. And it would be a brave man who attempted to use force.

  Watching from a safe distance, arms folded and eyes flashing with amusement, was Stead. He saw Lonsdale, and his merriment faded. Leaving the chaos, he took Lonsdale by the elbow and led him to his own office, closing the door behind them.

  ‘What happened to your eye?’ he asked.

  ‘My meeting with Cath Walker,’ explained Lonsdale, and quickly described what had happened.

  Stead tugged at his bushy beard. ‘I had a visit this morning from a Chief Inspector Leonard. Nice fellow. He told me that you had stumbled across more murders. Three in two days, Lonsdale! That’s remarkable by anyone’s standards.’

  ‘I think Cath and her companion were dispatched to prevent them telling me about Donovan’s death,’ said Lonsdale, and began to outline his theories. Stead listened, his vivid blue eyes never leaving his reporter’s face. When Lonsdale finished, the assistant editor scrubbed at his luxurious beard, and then sprang to his feet, to pace back and forth in front of the mantelpiece.

  ‘The PMG always complies with the wishes of the police in the interests of justice,’ he said, tossing an egg from hand to hand. ‘I told Leonard that we’ll go no further than a simple statement saying two people were murdered in Regent’s Park last night. He assures me that the park murders and the death by fire are unrelated.’

  ‘But they—’

  Stead raised a finger to quell Lonsdale’s objections, but the reporter started again.

  ‘But Cath said—’

  Seeing the authoritative finger was not going to work, Stead threw Lonsdale the egg, forcing him to scramble to catch it before it smashed on the carpet. It was, Lonsdale supposed as he juggled with it, a novel way to shut someone up.

  ‘It matters not one iota what you think, as nothing will be printed until the case is closed. Leonard promised to pass us all the details a day before releasing them to the rest of the press. Now, a day might be an eternity in journalism, but it isn’t long to write a decently researched article containing interviews with the people involved.’

  Lonsdale saw immediately what Stead was suggesting. He opened his mouth to speak, but Stead had another egg and it was already sailing towards the grimy glass cupboard on Lonsdale’s left. Lonsdale’s hand shot out, and the brown missile slapped into his palm.

  ‘Talk to Donovan’s neighbours,’ ordered Stead. ‘Find out what kind of man he was, and discover why anyone should want to kill him. Then go south of the river, and see about this murdered girl.’

  ‘Girl?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘You mean Cath, the prostitute?’

  Stead fixed him with a hard stare. ‘She was a girl – twenty-three years old, forced to sell the one commodity that someone is always willing to buy, just to have a four-pence bed for the night.’

  ‘How do you know how old she was?’ asked Lonsdale, recalling that Stead had an unwavering compassion for prostitutes, and often used The PMG to highlight their miseries to the newspaper’s readers. ‘Because she looked a lot more than twenty-three.’

  ‘If so, that’s more a reflection on our society than on her,’ said Stead. ‘But we’re wasting time. I managed to squeeze from a friend in Scotland Yard that she lived in Bermo
ndsey. Go there – find out about her and the man who died with her. Learning his name would be a start.’

  ‘So you believe me – that Donovan’s death and the murders in the park are connected?’ asked Lonsdale, astonished that Stead was prepared to let him investigate when the police had asked for discretion.

  ‘I do,’ said Stead. ‘Poor Miss Walker and her friend died trying to tell you about Donovan, so you are under a moral obligation to ensure that they didn’t die in vain. Moreover, it is significant that this missing policeman, Iverson, was at the scene of the fire, and that she was terrified of him. He might be at the heart of the whole affair.’

  ‘He might.’

  ‘Then off you go,’ said Stead, selecting a third egg from a box on his desk and tossing it so high in the air that it almost hit the ceiling. He turned and caught the egg behind his back. ‘Take Hulda with you.’

  ‘Friederichs?’ blurted Lonsdale. ‘But she’s—’

  ‘A woman?’ asked Stead, raising quixotic eyebrows. ‘Exactly! You can’t let it be known that you’re a reporter, or you’ll have people selling you all kinds of lies for the price of a beer. Hulda will make a splendid foil. After all, who’d imagine that we’d send a female journalist into the roughest areas of London? Besides, she needs the experience.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Lonsdale reluctantly.

  ‘But before you go, I want the zoo story. Go, go! You have not a moment to lose!’

  In reply, Lonsdale lobbed both eggs he was holding at Stead, who, as he had anticipated, made no attempt to catch them.

  ‘Hard-boiled,’ grinned Stead.

  Completing the article on the Zoological Gardens was not easy when the Prussian Governess leaned over his shoulder every five minutes to see if he had finished. When she was not demanding to know if he was writing a novel, she was swiping at those cobwebs she had missed earlier. Sensibly, the other reporters had made themselves scarce, Voules trailing an especially repellent, dust-enriched cobweb that everyone noticed, but no one mentioned. Eventually, the article was written, approved, and sent to the compositors on the top floor.

  ‘At last!’ exclaimed Hulda, wiping her hands on a manly handkerchief. ‘Are you ready now, or do you want to write about the decline of the barter system in rural Bechuanaland? Stead told me you know it well.’

  ‘What an excellent idea!’ exclaimed Lonsdale, sitting down again and reaching for his pen. ‘It will only take an hour or two.’

  She gaped in dismay until Lonsdale flung his pen down and made for the door, laughing at her for being so gullible.

  He led the way out of the building and walked towards the Strand, suddenly struck by the dismal greyness of London compared to the vivid wonders of Africa. In what, when he was assigned there, had been known as the West African Settlements, he had seen mounds of red, green, and orange fruits piled on brightly coloured rugs and sold by women in clothes the colours of rainbows. By contrast, the apples and potatoes on the street barrows of London had a tired, wizened look, and the vendors’ faces were pinched grey with cold above their filthy aprons.

  ‘I suggest we visit Donovan’s neighbours first,’ he said. ‘We can walk there in forty minutes. Or take a hansom – you choose.’

  Hulda put her hands on her hips. ‘We could never manage that distance in forty minutes! Unless we ran, which is not something I feel inclined to do. Of course we shall take a cab.’

  ‘A cab it is then,’ muttered Lonsdale, flagging one down.

  Appointing Hulda had not been a popular decision among the staff of The PMG – not because she was a woman, but because she was Hulda. She was aggressive, spoke her mind without considering the consequences, and was of the opinion that she was a better journalist than most of her associates. She was not someone Lonsdale would have chosen to work with, but no one went against Stead’s specific instructions.

  He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was pretty, but severe looking. Her thick fair hair was scraped austerely back from her face in a neat, no-nonsense bun. Her blue eyes were icy, but her complexion was fresh and clear. She held herself so erect that she looked down her nose at people, even those taller than her, and her clothes were immaculate. She had not been nicknamed ‘the Prussian Governess’ for nothing.

  The cab was cramped once Hulda had her floor-length skirt, pelisse, and gable bonnet wedged in, leaving Lonsdale barely enough room to sit. Even so, he received a withering look as she freed her skirt from underneath him with an irritable tug.

  ‘Why are we going to Wyndham Street first?’ she asked. ‘Why not go straight to Bermondsey? That is where the real answers lie.’

  ‘Because of the time,’ explained Lonsdale, cramped and uncomfortable in the small space she had allotted him. ‘No self-respecting prostitute will be up at eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning.’

  ‘Why are you familiar with the daily routines of whores?’ asked Hulda, regarding him with a disconcertingly candid gaze. ‘Are you a customer?’

  It was not a question a decent lady would ask, and for a moment Lonsdale was at a loss as to how to respond. He was saved from a reply – and he suspected that a denial or an affirmation would meet with equal disapproval – by the horse stumbling in a pothole.

  ‘Watch where you’re going!’ yelled Hulda in stentorian tones to the driver. ‘We are not at Ascot, you know!’

  Lonsdale cringed, hoping the driver would not be rash enough to answer back, sure that if he did an altercation would follow. Hurriedly, he resumed the conversation.

  ‘But Wyndham Street is solidly respectable. Its residents will be up and awake.’

  ‘Yes, but out working,’ Hulda pointed out. ‘Not lounging about at home.’

  ‘The men perhaps, but we want to speak to their wives – people who were at home when Donovan’s house caught on fire.’

  Hulda nodded. ‘So, how shall we approach them? Honestly, making it clear we’re reporters?’

  ‘Stead said we’d have more luck if we didn’t. I noticed that there was a house for rent in Wyndham Street. Across the street and down a bit from Donovan’s. We could pose as a married couple considering a move to the area.’

  ‘You mean pretend we’re married to each other?’ asked Hulda, aghast. ‘Me to you?’

  ‘I doubt we’d get far if we pretended to be married to other people,’ said Lonsdale dryly. ‘It would offend their morals if I claimed to be a married man intending to move in with someone else’s wife.’

  ‘All right then,’ conceded Hulda reluctantly. ‘What occupation will you claim? You’re too untidy to be a clerk, and your clothes are too good for you to be a menial. How about a glass-blower?’

  ‘We should stick to what we know,’ said Lonsdale, wondering how she had come up with such a bizarre choice. ‘How about an accountant at the zoo? And you can be a ticket vendor at the Haymarket Theatre.’

  ‘Very well,’ agreed Hulda. ‘Are you sure they won’t remember you?’

  ‘They probably will, but why shouldn’t I have been looking for a suitable house alone, before bringing my wife to see it?’

  ‘You’ll have to remember to call me Hulda, though. Do you have a match, by any chance?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think?’ She took a La Jurista cigar from her bag, waggled her fingers for the matches, and lit up. Acrid smoke began to billow round Lonsdale. He leaned forward, pretending to look at houses, in the vain hope of escaping the stench.

  ‘Please don’t ask for a light or a glass of brandy if any witnesses invite us into their homes,’ he warned. ‘I don’t want to miss out on information because you like to smoke and drink.’

  ‘Don’t be so fastidious!’ she said testily. ‘Many women smoke and drink these days.’

  ‘Not the ones who live in Wyndham Street. While we’re there, just pretend to be a normal person.’

  ‘But I’m not a normal person,’ objected Hulda. ‘I’m a very superior person.’

  ‘Your name,’ said Lonsdale curiousl
y. ‘Is it really Prussian?’

  ‘It is,’ replied Hulda proudly. ‘I was born in Ronsdorf in Rhenish Prussia. My grandfather once told my mother that unless all of her children were christened with Prussian names, he would exclude her from his will.’

  ‘And did “Hulda” satisfy him?’

  ‘You mean did he leave her an inheritance? Yes, he did, although what was left once his debts had been paid was not a great deal. My family’s financial position was one reason I sought a profession in which I could rise to the top, as I am currently doing.’

  Lonsdale was spared from having to reply because they were travelling down Crawford Street. He banged on the roof to tell the driver to stop. Hulda regarded him askance.

  ‘We’re not there yet. What are you doing?’

  ‘A ticket vendor and an accountant are hardly likely to arrive in a hansom when there’s a perfectly good omnibus service,’ he said. ‘We don’t want people to be suspicious before we begin. Come on. It’s not far.’

  They walked to the blackened ruins of Donovan’s house. Most of its roof had collapsed, exposing the timbers beneath. The tiny garden at the front was full of broken glass and soggy, burnt wood. The door was charred, but still firmly closed.

  ‘I want to look at the back of the house,’ said Lonsdale, leading the way to the alley. He considered taking Hulda’s arm, as a man might do with his wife, but was afraid she would bludgeon him with the hefty bag she carried.

  The rear door lay in the back garden, the freshly splintered wood showing where the firemen had smashed it with their axes to enter. Lonsdale crouched next to it and inspected the lock. It was still intact, with the metal bar protruding from it, while the doorframe hosted an impressive gash where the bar had torn through the wood. So, he thought, it had been locked when the firemen had forced their way in.

  Glass and cinders crunched under his feet as he walked inside. The walls were expanses of scorched wood and hanging timbers, while the stairs had been burned away completely, and the upstairs rooms had collapsed downwards in heaps of blackened rubble. Dark grey clouds were visible between the remaining roof joists. Lonsdale’s foot went clear through a floorboard in the hall, forcing him to grab at the remains of a banister to prevent him from plunging to the cellar below.