Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘What do you know?’ asked Lonsdale.

  ‘It was Mr Donovan’s half-day,’ began Rhys, ‘Wednesday a week ago, and he said he was going to Hyde Park to watch the model boats. I told him he’d catch a chill in the rain, but he didn’t listen. Model boats were his passion, you see. Then, the next day, he didn’t arrive for work, which was unusual.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Most unusual,’ continued Rhys, shaking his head mournfully. ‘Regular as clockwork was Mr Donovan. I assumed he’d got a cold from being out in the wet, and planned to stop off to see him on my way home. But the police came and said there’d been an accident. A fire.’

  ‘How terrible!’

  ‘He must have become chilled watching the boats, and then set his house ablaze accidentally when he lit a fire to warm himself. Dreadful business!’

  ‘Did he go boating alone?’ asked Lonsdale.

  Rhys looked at him curiously, but answered politely enough. ‘I believe so, although he didn’t boat himself – he just liked to watch. He was a quiet man, not given to chatter. He must have taken a shine to you, if he told you about his father. None of us knew about that until he asked for an hour off to attend the funeral last year.’

  ‘Poor Donovan,’ said Lonsdale, genuinely sorry for a man who should be quite so without friends. ‘Was he ill Wednesday? Is that why you advised him against boating in the rain?’

  ‘Never had a day’s sickness in his life, and never missed a day of work! He was looking forward to his afternoon in the park, humming and singing under his breath as he always did when boating was planned.’

  ‘Is there a wife or dependants whom I might help with a small donation?’

  Rhys shook his head. ‘It’s a kind thought, sir, but Mr Donovan had no family. He was a very private man, and, even though we worked side by side for almost a year, he only invited me to his house once – just a few days before he died.’

  ‘Gracious,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Did he have a reason for inviting you then?’

  ‘I saw an advertisement for a house to rent in his road,’ said Rhys. ‘Number thirty-five. When I mentioned it to him, he invited me to pop by when I’d finished viewing it. I did, but I could tell he was uncomfortable, so I stayed only briefly. In fact, it had been so long since he’d had company, that he had to hunt about for a spare cup and saucer.’

  ‘Number thirty-five?’ asked Lonsdale, realizing that this was the Welshman about whom Hulda had spun her tales of rag-and-bone men. He felt a surge of guilt.

  Rhys nodded. ‘My wife and son liked the look of the place. Affordable homes in decent neighbourhoods are harder to find than you’d imagine, so we wanted to take it. But there seems to be a problem, which the agent says is of an “undefined” nature.’ He frowned, his pleasant, earnest face puckering in consternation.

  ‘We will be late for our appointment, dear,’ said Hulda, standing abruptly and indicating that she and Lonsdale should leave. ‘We must go.’

  ‘I’ll take three of these,’ said Lonsdale, feeling obliged to buy something, so pointing to the first items he saw. He needed new shirts anyway, and disliked shopping. He jotted down his address. ‘And half-a-dozen collars.’

  Rhys saw them to the door, and Lonsdale took Hulda’s arm until they were out of sight, when she promptly tugged it away.

  ‘And you accuse me of leading people astray with lies!’ she exclaimed. ‘Hypocrite! You even offered to give money to a family you knew perfectly well doesn’t exist.’

  ‘To be frank, I seriously considered giving it to poor Rhys, given that you ruined his chances of moving into the house of his dreams.’

  She had the grace to look guilty, but still retorted, ‘Well, for all I know, you gave him a false address to which to send the shirts.’

  ‘I most certainly did not,’ objected Lonsdale indignantly. ‘I—’

  ‘You barely noticed what you were buying,’ she interrupted, clearly spoiling for an argument. ‘That obviously comes from having more money than sense.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Lonsdale, startled at her effrontery.

  ‘You are independently wealthy, aren’t you? Voules told me that one reason he believes he should get the upcoming job at The PMG is that whereas he is not financially independent, your father left you a quarter of his not inconsiderable estate when he died. He said it was a fortune that was divided between you, two brothers, and a sister, and that you want for nothing.’ She tipped her head back and regarded him defiantly.

  ‘And how is Voules so familiar with my personal affairs?’

  ‘He has contacts in important places.’

  ‘Well, his contacts are wrong,’ said Lonsdale coolly. ‘My parents are both alive, and my father is the rector of Raunds in Northamptonshire – a country parson, living in a rectory he does not own. And I have a sister and three brothers: Jack, one who is the rector in Withersfield in Suffolk, and one who is a lieutenant in the Royal Navy. The reason I live with Jack is that I don’t have independent means, and when Jack marries and I move out, I shall probably be all but destitute.’

  ‘Then let’s hope you get the position at The PMG,’ said Hulda, in what Lonsdale supposed was intended to be a placatory manner. ‘I’d rather have you than Voules.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lonsdale, thinking it was not much of a compliment. ‘But we should be discussing Donovan, not my personal finances.’

  Hulda nodded. ‘He was chilled from the rain, so he lit a fire when he got home from the park. The chimney caught fire, and he rushed into the street to raise the alarm. He went back inside, where the killer strangled him, removed his cerebrum, crushed his head to hide the mutilation, left the fire to destroy any other clues, and escaped unseen.’

  ‘Would a killer just happen to be there when the chimney caught fire?’ asked Lonsdale doubtfully. ‘And, more importantly, why did he want Donovan’s cerebrum—’

  ‘Don’t look now, but I believe we’re being followed,’ interrupted Hulda.

  She sighed irritably when Lonsdale glanced behind him, just in time to see the tall man who had been in Salmon and Eden duck through a door. Lonsdale frowned. The man had looked respectable, so why was he heading into the jug-and-bottle room of a pub, where drink was normally fetched for home consumption? He shrugged mentally, realizing that his imagination must be spiralling out of control – and so was Hulda’s – if they were beginning to question the antics of complete strangers.

  ‘Are you sure he was after us?’ he asked. ‘He looked a respectable gentleman.’

  Hulda glared at him. ‘Not him, Lonsdale – the boy.’ The one who … damn it! He’s gone. You would make a hopeless spy. You should have pretended not to notice him, while I doubled back and nabbed him.’

  ‘A boy?’

  ‘A scruffy one. But never mind him now. You and I are going to Morley, and we shall convince him that Donovan’s death must be investigated. Well, don’t just stand there with your mouth hanging open – flag down a hansom.’

  When Hulda and Lonsdale reached the reporters’ office at The PMG, they were greeted by Voules, his chubby face split by a lascivious leer. The only other person there was young Edward Cook, who was looking angry, as people often did when obliged to spend any time with Voules.

  ‘Coming to work in the same hansom, are we?’ Voules asked, rubbing his hands together. ‘A romance! How delicious! It is—’

  Hulda instantly advanced so menacingly on him that he stepped back in alarm, the grin wiped from his face as though she had used a flannel.

  ‘If I were having a romance, it would not be with Lonsdale, and it would certainly not be any business of yours,’ she hissed dangerously. ‘So keep your slanderous opinions to yourself. You lied about Lonsdale and his fabled wealth, and now you dare to gossip about me. You’re walking directly towards disaster, and it is a very short path.’

  Voules opened his mouth to defend himself, but she turned on her heel and stormed away, leaving him standing spluttering at empty air.
<
br />   ‘You’re playing with fire, Voules,’ warned Cook, who was dressed as smartly as Voules was untidily, his thick hair perfectly groomed. ‘No one insults The Friederichs and lives to tell the tale.’

  ‘Why, what will she do?’ sniggered Voules, vibrating with unpleasant laughter now his intimidator was gone. ‘Call me out? Pistols at dawn?’ He turned toward Lonsdale. ‘Will you be her second?’

  Lonsdale ignored him, thinking such remarks beneath his dignity to acknowledge. Cook was not so sanguine, and flushed with anger.

  ‘Friederichs wouldn’t need a second,’ he said hotly. ‘And if it were pistols, you would be wise to stay away. She’s said to be handy with guns – rifles, shotguns, and pistols.’

  ‘Does she fence, too? Or box?’ smirked Voules acidly. He sat at his desk and pulled out his pipe. ‘Nothing would surprise me about her. She probably doesn’t swoon at the mention of knickers, either, as any well-bred woman should.’

  ‘And any well-bred man would not speculate on a lady’s personal life,’ snapped Cook. ‘By such comments, you reveal that you are no gentleman.’

  Voules’s flabby cheeks burned crimson with anger at the insult, but before he could reply, Cook stood and stamped out. Lonsdale followed, gratified to see Voules seething with indignation. As he passed Stead’s office, he was startled to hear Alfred Milner calling him.

  He retraced his steps and saw Milner kneeling on the floor, sifting through a pile of morning papers.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked. ‘And where is Stead?’

  ‘At the House, Alec. The budget is to be announced today.’ He smiled. ‘Your workhouse experiences have created quite a sensation! We had to print extra copies yesterday because of the demand for the second part of the story, and the print run will be higher yet for the final instalment today.’

  ‘If you have time to chat, Milner, I assume you’ve found what I asked you to retrieve,’ came Morley’s icy voice from behind Lonsdale.

  Lonsdale knew immediately the editor was in a bad mood, as he never criticized Milner as he did the rest of his staff – Morley liked him, because he not only understood the Irish Question, but was interested in it. He decided to make himself scarce, but Hulda arrived at just that moment, still irked by her encounter with Voules.

  ‘Mr Morley,’ she began brusquely. ‘I’d like a word with you, please.’

  ‘And I with you,’ replied Morley coolly. ‘Indeed, I was about to send for you. Lonsdale, too.’

  They followed him into his office, where he held out an imperious hand, and Milner hurried forward to place a selection of articles in it; all, Lonsdale read upside down, related to Ireland. Milner backed away quickly, as Morley regarded first Hulda and then Lonsdale with a chilly glare.

  ‘Neither of you produced a review of Patience as I ordered – Cook did it. I require my reporters to complete the assignments I give them, not ones they choose to do themselves. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Lonsdale, although Hulda remained silent.

  ‘Good. And now you will redeem yourselves. There is a performance of The Parvenu at the Court Theatre tonight, and one of you will write a review. That means going, Miss Friederichs, not reading what The Times has to say and copying it.’

  ‘I would never—’ Hulda began indignantly.

  Morley overrode her. ‘Meanwhile, Miss Friederichs will work on our Occasional Notes section, remembering that they are supposed to give life and smartness to the page. Lonsdale, I want a piece on the miners’ riots in Camborne. Plus, there’s an intriguing story about a charging sperm whale sinking a ship. Whoever escapes the theatre tonight will investigate that.’

  ‘A sperm whale?’ echoed Hulda doubtfully.

  ‘Find the truth and write it,’ replied Morley, turning to the first of his articles. They both knew they had been dismissed.

  ‘Do you want the theatre or the whale?’ Lonsdale asked as they walked into the reporters’ room.

  ‘The whale,’ replied Hulda at once. ‘I can’t abide the theatre.’

  ‘Professor Seeley, my old tutor from Caius, is dining at our club tomorrow night,’ Lonsdale told Milner later, as several reporters wrapped up their day after the edition had gone to the press. ‘Jack and I will join him, and I was wondering if you would, too.’

  ‘John Seeley was your tutor?’ asked Milner, eagerly. ‘The greatest thinker on historical issues of Christian doctrine? I had no idea you were so well connected!’

  Lonsdale smiled fondly at the thought of his mentor. ‘So will you come?’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Milner with a grimace. ‘Stead made me promise to take Harris to the club tomorrow, to thank him for taking you to the Garrick. Damn! I don’t see how I can escape now that the invitation has been issued.’

  ‘I suppose he could come, too,’ said Lonsdale, although the prospect of introducing the erudite Seeley to a boor like Harris was alarming.

  ‘Don’t do it!’ warned Cook, laughing. ‘Not if you have an iota of affection for your old mentor. Harris is a pig and I cannot imagine why the Garrick let him in.’

  ‘No indeed,’ agreed Milner. ‘Of course, it could be worse. We could drop into our clubs one day and find The Friederichs there, hogging the best papers and smoking her revolting cigars.’

  ‘Hulda doesn’t smoke cigars,’ said Cook, ever the gentleman.

  Lonsdale said nothing.

  ‘She keeps some on her desk, but perhaps they’re just for show,’ said Milner. ‘Well, why not? There’s nothing so healthy or as satisfying as a fat cigar.’ He went to Hulda’s desk and picked up a La Jurista before grimacing and dropping it in distaste. ‘Not one of these! But an El Diamante is one of the great pleasures in life. I always smoke during interviews, as it puts the people being questioned at ease.’

  ‘I can’t see Friederichs smoking a cigar, though,’ said Cook loyally. ‘It would be unbecoming in a woman.’

  ‘True,’ conceded Milner. ‘In this day of women gaining new legal rights and being allowed to receive a superior education, a cigar is still one of the great benefits of being a man.’

  Lonsdale continued to remain silent.

  By the time Lonsdale had eaten a quick supper at home, changed into his evening suit, and caught a hansom to the Court Theatre, the performance was about to begin. The theatre was full, at least in part because the Prince of Wales was there, exuding his customary melange of gentility and debauchery. Lonsdale quickly lost interest in the play, and found himself thinking about Donovan, Cath, and the mysterious Constable Iverson. He reviewed his encounter with the prostitute again, in the hope of uncovering some previously overlooked clue.

  Did she have a tale to tell him, or had her intention been to rob him? She had promised to bring a witness to prove her claims, and then she and the unidentified man were killed – her with a slit throat and him by poison. Why two such different modes of execution? It all seemed unnecessarily complex.

  More to the point, who had killed them? The two men who had attacked him? He pondered the question and decided not, on the grounds that they had been such inept fighters, and the killer of Cath, her accomplice, and Donovan – he no longer doubted that the deaths of Donovan and Cath were related – had been ruthlessly efficient.

  Applause from the audience brought him out of his reverie, and he stood for intermission. The theatre stank of perfume, hair lacquer, eau-de-Cologne, and other beautifying potions, all vying with the reek of smoke from cigars, cigarettes, and pipes. The latter grew worse as people collected their refreshments from the foyer. Eventually, it proved more than Lonsdale could bear, and he walked outside for some fresh air.

  Or, rather, some cooler air. Smoke from thousands upon thousands of chimneys poured into London’s sky. Lonsdale took a deep breath and felt grit between his teeth. He was about to go back inside again, when there was a low rumble followed by the sound of smashing glass and a blast of hot air. For a moment, nothing happened, then people began to scream, and dust billowed through t
he doors.

  Lonsdale’s first thought was that it was an attempt by Irish Fenians on the life of the Prince of Wales. He covered his mouth and nose with his handkerchief and raced inside.

  In the foyer, a huge chandelier hung by a thread from the ceiling, threatening to drop at any moment. Broken glass was everywhere. A woman shrieked in terror, and another was sobbing. Lonsdale saw that someone had organized a line of people with water buckets to douse the flames. Indeed, most people were leaving in a surprisingly calm fashion, gentlemen even pausing to assist older ladies. Several stewards had manned the cloakroom and were returning hats, cloaks, and capes.

  He knelt next to a young doorman, who lay on the floor, clutching his knee. It was messy but not serious, caused when the lad had fallen on some glass. He staunched the flow of blood with his handkerchief and made a crude bandage with his tie.

  Above the clatter of heels on the marble floor, whispers told Lonsdale that the Prince of Wales had taken charge, and was overseeing the evacuation. Lonsdale lifted the lad in his arms, and joined the flow of people outside.

  ‘Was it one of those Irish mobs, do you think?’ one man asked as they went. ‘They certainly wouldn’t hesitate to inflict such an outrage.’

  ‘We were damned lucky,’ said another. ‘The bell had rung to announce the second act, so people were on the move. Had the explosion occurred five minutes earlier, there would have been a massacre.’

  Two firemen informed the white-faced manager that they would not be able to tell whether the explosion was caused by gas or something more sinister until the following morning. Seeing there was no more to learn, Lonsdale decided to go home.

  He relinquished the lad into the care of a steward, retrieved his overcoat and gibus hat, and began searching for a hansom. He was about to hail one when he saw a nicely dressed young lad watching him from the kerbside on the opposite side of the road. He was familiar, but it took Lonsdale a moment to remember where he had seen him before.