It appears from early comments that your work is creating quite a stir. Representatives from several dailies have asked about carrying extracts of the second and third instalments tomorrow and the following day.
Inspector Peters came to find you. You are required to appear tomorrow morning at nine o’clock at the County Court, Great Portland Street, for the inquest into the death of Miss Walker. Although you’ll undoubtedly testify early in the proceedings, you may, if you wish, remain there to see if any new facts have arisen.
Yours cordially,
Stead
The County Court dated from the previous century, but it had none of the attractiveness of most Georgian architecture. It was a grim, ineloquent building and everything about it screamed functionality. Lonsdale was directed to a dirty wood-panelled room on the ground floor, where the coroner sat in a high-backed, tatty red-velvet chair, almost hidden by the pile of papers in front of him. Dr Danford Thomas was a small, grey-haired man, with brown eyes hidden behind thick glasses and nicotine-stained teeth.
To Thomas’s left, at right angles to his desk, were twelve uncomfortable wooden chairs, on which sat the members of the jury, while to his right were benches for witnesses. A large Bible marked with greasy fingerprints sat in imposing isolation on its own table so that witnesses might swear on it to tell the truth.
Before Lonsdale could sit down, Inspector Peters approached.
‘I have to take the jury to see the body before witness testimony can be heard. While we’re gone, Leonard would like to speak to you.’
He nodded to where the chief inspector was waiting by the door. Lonsdale went to join him, and they walked outside for privacy.
‘Superintendent Ramsey wants you to understand several things before testifying,’ Leonard began after a brief exchange of pleasantries. ‘You must, of course, explain how you came to find Walker in Regent’s Park, but you cannot mention her connection with Donovan.’
‘But that’s why I was there!’ objected Lonsdale. ‘If I’m asked—’
‘You won’t be,’ interrupted Leonard. ‘Ramsey has already spoken to the coroner, and … arrangements are in place.’
Lonsdale regarded him askance. ‘You’re asking me to withhold information from a legal inquiry?’
Leonard nodded ruefully. ‘There are usually reporters at inquests, and if the issue of Donovan’s disfiguring comes up, it’ll be in the papers. Ramsey has good reasons for keeping it quiet for now, and Thomas has agreed both to avoid the subject and to postpone Donovan’s inquest. I can’t tell you more yet, but I can assure you that we have the interests of justice at heart.’ He saw Lonsdale’s doubtful expression. ‘You’re being asked to cooperate by a very high-ranking police officer.’
‘In my experience, that might mean he has something to hide.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘Very well, I shall do as you ask,’ he said, albeit reluctantly.
Leonard patted his shoulder. ‘Good man! Now, when Thomas asks what you were doing in the park, you may say that you were meeting Walker …’
‘No,’ said Lonsdale firmly, not about to give some of his less scrupulous colleagues an opportunity to say he had arranged an assignation with a prostitute in a deserted park at night. ‘I shall say that she offered me a story, but that I never learned the details. That’s true.’
Leonard reflected, then nodded. ‘That should be enough. When this is over, I’ll give you the whole story. Then you’ll see how important your cooperation was.’ He reached out to shake Lonsdale’s hand. ‘Now I must bid you good day.’
Lonsdale watched him walk away, thinking about Milner’s belief that the story would not be important, just sensational. Yet senior police officers were prepared to control how the press handled it. Was there more to the tale than a grisly murder and the slaughter of a prostitute and her accomplice? Did the police know of similar cases? He was inclined to conclude they did, as Ramsey would not be concerned with the random killing of a few friendless Londoners. But how could he find out? And could he disobey Morley’s order to leave it well alone?
As he turned to go back into the courthouse, he saw a figure dodge into the nearby Portland Hotel. He frowned, then told himself that it had nothing to do with him, and headed back inside the courthouse.
Shortly after ten o’clock, the jury shuffled into their seats, and the inquest began. The initial witness was young Constable Lamb – the first policeman on the scene – who wore a freshly pressed jacket with buttons that gleamed like mirrors. He described how Lonsdale had approached him and what happened in the ensuing minutes. His testimony was followed by that of his colleagues.
Inspector Peters was the last policeman to testify. He rattled off the oath, then turned his lugubrious gaze on the coroner, waiting with all the cheer of a calf sent for slaughter. Thomas led him through his testimony, then asked why the search for clues – which had initially been postponed until daylight – had not yet taken place. Lonsdale leaned forward – he had assumed it had been completed.
‘Inspector Beck of Scotland Yard volunteered the use of bloodhounds,’ explained Peters. ‘But Chief Inspector Leonard informed me that Superintendent Ramsey had countermanded that order. By the time the matter was resolved – it was an unfortunate misunderstanding apparently – a search of the area would have been futile because of the public nature of the place.’
Lonsdale stared at him. A misunderstanding? Or a deliberate attempt to prevent Cath’s death from being properly explored? He listened as Peters recounted what he had learned about the victim.
‘She was born Catherine Mitchell, was a Primitive Methodist, and had worked briefly as a calico weaver. She could read. Her arrest record included charges of vagrancy, drunkenness, wilful damage, and prostitution.’
‘Has your investigation so far shed any further light that would be helpful to this inquiry?’ asked Thomas.
‘No, sir,’ said Peters. ‘But the investigation is ongoing.’
Lonsdale was next, and recounted his meeting with Cath at the fire and her offer of information for a story. He then told of being attacked by two men he assumed were her friends.
‘She stipulated the bandstand,’ said Thomas in a gentle Welsh lilt, ‘but you looked for her near the trees and bushes when she failed to appear. Why?’
‘Because I heard a noise in that area when I first arrived, then the two assailants came from that vicinity. I just assumed that Miss Walker might be there.’
‘Thank you, Mr Lonsdale. That will be all.’
‘He must like you,’ whispered Hulda, as Lonsdale sat at the back of the courtroom. He was surprised to see her. ‘He could have asked a lot more questions.’
Next on the stand was a large woman of about thirty, who said her name was Mary Lawrence. She wore a jacket and skirt of stiff green material and had clearly gone to some trouble to look her best. She identified the body as that of her sister.
‘When did you last see her alive?’ the coroner asked.
‘A quarter to seven last Thursday evening. She came to Red Lion Street, where I work – I’m a seamstress. She was frightened, but wouldn’t say why, and stayed less than an hour.’
‘Did you know what she did for a living?’ asked Thomas quietly.
‘She’d been before the police court magistrates once or twice for … selling her personal wares.’ Her lips compressed in a disapproving line.
‘Do you know why she seemed frightened at your final meeting?’
‘No, sir. But I can tell you she wasn’t one to scare easily.’
Hulda leaned over to whisper to Lonsdale, disapproval in every word. ‘He’s making it sound as if she was killed because she was a whore – nothing to do with Donovan.’
‘Ramsey’s orders,’ Lonsdale whispered back. ‘Leonard told me I had to be careful with what I said, too.’
‘So we’re wasting our time here? Then let’s leave.’
But Lonsdale was determined to see it through. He stayed, a reluctant Hulda at his side, and heard the t
estimony of a thin, frail-looking woman named Margaret Tanner, a widow who ran the lodging house where the dead woman often stayed.
‘When did you last see her alive?’ asked Thomas.
‘About six thirty on the night she died. She was in the Dog and Bone public house, on Minto Street. She was a lively soul usually, but she seemed out of sorts that night.’
Thomas pressed her for details, but the woman spoke very cagily, obviously determined to ignore any implications that her lodging house might be of dubious reputation. Finally, Thomas dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
Lonsdale felt hungry, so when Thomas announced a thirty-minute lunch break before the afternoon session, he crossed the road and bought a pie from a street vendor. After making some disparaging remarks about it, Hulda followed suit, seduced by the light yellow pastry and the sweet scent of meat and onions. They sat on a grimy bench in a little park to eat, and had barely started when they were hailed.
‘I thought you’d be gone,’ said Bradwell. His smiled broadened. ‘And of course, it’s always a pleasure to see you, Miss Friederichs.’
‘Dr Bradwell,’ beamed Hulda, offering a hand to the pathologist. ‘Would you like some of my pie?’
‘No, they’re made from cat,’ replied Bradwell. ‘I dislike eating carnivore.’ He turned to Lonsdale. ‘I’ve heard you’ve been ordered not to investigate Donovan’s death. Is it true?’
Lonsdale nodded as he threw the remainder of his pie to the pigeons. Hulda finished hers with enthusiasm. ‘Which is a pity, because I’m sure something significant is happening – something deeper than a lunatic with a penchant for cerebra.’
‘I agree, which is why I hoped to catch you. Can you meet me after the inquest is over?’
‘We shall look forward to it,’ said Hulda, clearly assuming she was included in the invitation. She dabbed her lips with a piece of lace and glanced at the pie-seller, as if considering a second piece.
They took their places in the court and listened while Bradwell gave his evidence in a concise, professional tone that suggested he had done it many times before. After describing the scene, the placement of the body, and the details of the long and fatal incision in her throat, he noted that the injuries were beyond the possibility of self-infliction.
‘Was any anatomical knowledge displayed by the incision?’ asked Thomas.
‘I believe so,’ said Bradwell. ‘There seems to have been some knowledge as to where to cut the throat in order to cause a fatal and quick result.’
Bradwell’s testimony was followed by that of several of Cath’s acquaintances. When Thomas had dismissed the last of these, he looked at the jury. ‘Your task now is to decide whether you have been presented with sufficient evidence to decide the cause of Catherine Walker’s death.’
Within a matter of moments, having conferred with other jury members, the foreman returned a verdict of ‘wilful murder by person or persons unknown.’ Thomas added nothing more, but the way his questions had been asked left the distinct impression that Cath was just another unfortunate killed in the course of her occupation.
‘Inspector Peters is adjourning to a coffee house,’ Bradwell said to Lonsdale following the inquest. ‘Shall we join him there? It would be another opportunity to quiz him.’
Lonsdale was not sure he wanted another encounter with the law, particularly as it went contrary to Morley’s instructions. However, Hulda accepted the offer with alacrity, so he trailed after them to a seedy establishment on the other side of the park.
‘Will Lonsdale have to attend the inquest on Walker’s dead friend?’ asked Hulda when they were settled around a grimy table. ‘What was his name?’
‘We don’t know it,’ replied Peters. ‘Not yet.’
‘Really?’ asked Hulda, voicing Lonsdale’s surprise. ‘You’ve had days!’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Peters, reaching into his pocket for a briar pipe and Virginia tobacco. ‘But he’s not my only active case, and these matters are never easy – this is a city of millions of people, and the Metropolitan Police District is huge. Since Walker is from south of the river, it is likely the man is as well, and that means in theory I should be liaising with my colleagues in Southwark Division. But due to professional jealousies, many officers decline to share information with those in different divisions.’
‘Is there no way you can obtain this evidence yourself?’ asked Hulda, sounding sceptical.
‘It’s difficult – one has to be careful not to be seen subverting official channels. I did quietly send a detective to Walker’s lodging house and then to trawl several local pubs to ask after her friend. Unfortunately, the police are regarded with suspicion in that area.’
‘Can we help you?’ asked Hulda in her most innocent manner.
‘No thank you,’ responded Peters, a smile twitching his moustache as he knocked the bowl of his pipe on the table and rubbed a bit of burnt tobacco out with a stubby index finger. ‘We may move slowly, but we get there in the end.’
‘So tell us what’s happening with the Donovan case,’ said Bradwell. ‘I’ve been informed that I won’t be needed for the inquest, which is odd.’
‘That’s correct,’ said Peters flatly. ‘Superintendent Ramsey believes that there’s no link between Walker and Donovan, and I’ve been told to wait until I receive further instructions.’
‘How can he say they aren’t linked?’ demanded Lonsdale. ‘Cath met me at the fire and told me she knew something about the killing of Donovan.’
‘So I understand,’ said Peters. He rose, putting his pipe and tobacco in his pocket. ‘It is all very curious. However, although Dr Bradwell clearly thinks we should all work together on the case – that is why you brought them here, is it not, Bradwell? – it is a police matter, and I strongly advise you to leave well enough alone.’
‘It is curious,’ said Hulda. ‘And perhaps Dr Bradwell is right.’ She smiled at the pathologist, who blushed.
‘No,’ said Inspector Peters, ‘he is not. Come, Bradwell. You should return to your house of the dead and I have work to do.’
Hulda allowed Bradwell to keep her hand rather longer than was strictly necessary as the pathologist took his leave, and then the two men were gone, leaving her and Lonsdale alone.
‘One has to try to obtain information however one can,’ she said in answer to Lonsdale’s questioning gaze regarding her coquettishness. ‘Now, tell me why the coroner protected you from any serious questioning.’
Lonsdale obliged, and Hulda sat still, thinking.
‘Peters is right: this is curious,’ she said eventually. ‘First, Superintendent Ramsey and Chief Inspector Leonard tell our editors that they don’t want us investigating. Then Ramsey has Donovan’s inquest suppressed and sees to it that you aren’t asked why you were meeting Walker, not to mention the “misunderstanding” that saw the scene of the crime left unsearched. Peters pretends not to mind, but he does – terribly. All this points to one thing: Ramsey is covering something up, possibly to protect the missing policeman, Iverson. Maybe Peters has been told to keep quiet, too. If he has, he’d never say.’
Lonsdale agreed. ‘But there’s nothing we can do.’
‘Oh, yes, there is – we can explore these deaths ourselves.’
‘But we’ve been told to leave it alone – by the police, and more importantly by Morley, who is, after all, the editor of The PMG.’
Her blue eyes gleamed. ‘He also said we might publish a short account when the murders were resolved – which they won’t be unless someone actually investigates. The police are willing to forget about it, but I’m not. How can they object when they’ve already given up?’
‘I cannot see Morley being impressed by that argument,’ said Lonsdale.
‘This is more important than him,’ determined Hulda. ‘So first thing tomorrow we shall go to Donovan’s place of work, and we will inform Morley what we’re doing when we have proof of something odd. Then he’ll have to agree to let us continue.’
&
nbsp; ‘Morley would certainly rather we consulted him before we go to Donovan’s workplace,’ said Lonsdale. ‘But I agree we need a carrot to dangle in front of him. So I will go with you tomorrow, but only if we agree we won’t do anything else until he gives us his permission.’
‘Of course,’ said Hulda, a triumphant smile playing on the edges of her mouth. ‘Would I ever do anything without official approval?’
Salmon and Eden Gentleman’s Outfitters was a discreet establishment located at the corner of Oxford and Bird streets. Its windows were spotlessly clean – a remarkable feat in London – and in each there was a tasteful display of suits and coats and hats. Inside, the atmosphere was reverently hushed.
The shop had been open no more than ten minutes when Lonsdale arrived with Hulda. They were barely inside before an assistant came to offer a seat for the lady and his services for the gentleman. While Hulda sat, Lonsdale inspected shirts and trays of collars.
‘Are you new?’ the reporter asked nonchalantly of the assistant, a neat, dapper little Welshman with thinning hair, a huge moustache, and the name of Rhys. ‘The last time I was here, I was attended by Donovan.’
Rhys’s face became sombre. ‘Mr Donovan is no longer with us, sir.’
‘Really?’ asked Lonsdale, inspecting a collar. ‘I suppose he left because of his father? He told me the old man was ill, but of course this was over a year ago.’
‘The old man died, sir,’ explained Rhys. ‘And, it grieves me to say, so did Mr Donovan. Just last week, in a tragic accident.’
‘How dreadful,’ Lonsdale exclaimed. ‘How?’
‘I don’t know the details.’ Rhys lowered his voice as one of his colleagues darted forward to greet a tall gentleman in a grey double-breasted reefer, who strolled in asking for collar studs. The newcomer glanced around the shop imperiously, allowing his gaze to settle on Lonsdale briefly, before giving his attention to the proffered box.
Mind of a Killer Page 10