Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Hello, Jamie,’ Lonsdale said, approaching the boy he had seen at the workhouse. ‘Not your normal area, is it?’

  ‘I get around,’ shrugged Jamie. ‘Same as you.’

  ‘How did you …?’ began Lonsdale curiously, but then understanding came in a flash. ‘You rode on the back of the carriage when I was collected from the workhouse. You jumped off when I reached home – I heard you.’

  Jamie grinned. ‘I saw you getting into a big carriage, so I thought to myself, “why don’t we see who this feller is?” So I went along for the ride, all the way to Bayswater. The houses kept getting bigger and bigger, and yours was one of the biggest.’

  ‘And you were on Oxford Street this morning …’

  ‘Your lady friend spotted me, I suppose. But, yeah, I’ve been watching you since, seeing if I could figger what you really are. One thing you ain’t, is a man that needs to doss at a workhouse.’

  ‘Nor are you, judging by your clothes,’ said Lonsdale wryly.

  ‘Just did a bit of snow-droppin’, didn’t I?’

  ‘You mean you stole them from a line while they were drying?’

  Jamie grinned again. ‘So now I look like a right little gen’leman.’

  ‘Well then, little gentleman, what do you want from me?’

  ‘It’s what you want from me, old pal – I can tell you things for your newspaper.’ He smirked when Lonsdale’s eyebrows rose. ‘Yeah, I know you’re a reporter. I ain’t stupid – you stay at home for a couple of days after you leave the workhouse, and then all of a sudden everyone’s talking about what happens there. I guessed right away what you done.’

  ‘But what makes you think I need more information? I learned more than enough the other night.’

  ‘You’ll want to hear what I got to say, old pal. But speaking the Lord’s truth is hungry work.’ He looked at Lonsdale meaningfully.

  ‘All right,’ said Lonsdale, laughing. ‘There’s a café nearby. I’ll buy you a meal in exchange for your gossip.’

  The Aerated Bread Company cafés were small, respectable, and known for their quick service, clean cutlery, and inexpensive food. The one on Sloane Street was filled with clerks and white-collar workers who had been working late, and the air was heavy with the smell of hot lard from the skillets. Feeling conspicuous in his finery, Lonsdale selected a table at the back.

  ‘So, what can you tell me?’ he asked, after Jamie had ordered enough food to fill someone twice his size. The lad had been gawking at the displays of food in walnut cases along the wall, but when he looked back at Lonsdale, his bravado seemed to wilt. He grew sombre.

  ‘You seem a nice man,’ he said. ‘Maybe you can do sommat to help me. And you got reason to, because the same men who’ve taken me mates are looking for you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Lonsdale, bemused. ‘Who’s looking for me? And what happened to your friends?’

  ‘I know lots of people from the workhouses. You stay there long enough, you get to know most. And I’ve been there for years – since me dad did a runner. Lately, some’ve disappeared, including two of me mates.’ He paused and looked around furtively. ‘I see things, but I don’t get seen, if you know what I mean. I’ve seen a number of people being taken away – and they ain’t never come back.’

  ‘Taken away?’ asked Lonsdale.

  ‘Loo-ered,’ said the lad, giving a particularly sinister tone to a word he obviously did not use often. ‘Talked into going off with women.’

  ‘Lured away by prostitutes?’

  ‘No. I know dollies, whether they’re the fanciest flash-tails, the common dress-lodgers, or the wrens that hang about the military barracks. None of them. These were women that were hired to get men away from the workhouse.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re just wives or girlfriends.’

  ‘They ain’t, I tell you,’ insisted Jamie. He paused as the waiter brought his food, and did not speak again until he had scoffed his first cake. ‘The men go away with the women, and they don’t come back. It’s because of the men who’re watching.’

  ‘What men?’ asked Lonsdale, bewildered by the flood of information.

  ‘Four or five of ’em, usually a couple at a time.’ Jamie spoke from around a massive bite of beef pie. ‘The one I’ve seen the most is older’n you – short, but with big arms, like a blacksmith. He’s got thinnish hair and a long beard. And he’s got a real swagger, like some lord.’

  Lonsdale took out his pocket book and began to write. ‘And the others?’

  ‘Another’s small, not much bigger’n me. I’ve seen him walking into a pub once, over in Stepney, and he was cursing to himself sommat vile. He’s got a funny moustache – half dark, half grey. And one of those top hats that the killer wore – the cove that was hanged.’

  ‘A Müller cut-down?’ Lonsdale asked, giving a name popularly used for a hat that resembled a top hat trimmed to half its height. It was named for a murderer whose penchant for them had led to his eventual identification and arrest.

  ‘That’s it. And then there’s an older feller. He’s big too, but fat. Hands shaking with excitement all the time and a great scar through his eyebrow—’

  Lonsdale sat bolt upright. ‘What?’

  ‘I said you’d be interested,’ said Jamie smugly. ‘Saw him following you the other day. You and your lady friend.’

  ‘Where?’ demanded Lonsdale.

  ‘Great Portland Street. He was just there, watching. Didn’t know I was watching him – like I said, I see but I don’t get seen. And he ain’t the only one. There’s a gent, too. Dark grey suit, top hat, and nice shoes. Not nearly so good at staying out of sight as Eyebrow is.’

  ‘I’ve seen him, too,’ mused Lonsdale. ‘Although I hadn’t given him much thought. Do they know each other?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Jamie gave him a conspiratorial glance. ‘Seems you’ve been up to more than just going to a workhouse.’

  ‘I think it’s the ones following me who have been up to something,’ muttered Lonsdale. ‘Murder – I think they’ve murdered people.’

  Jamie stopped chewing. ‘Then me mates is done for?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Tell me more about what you’ve seen.’

  So Jamie did.

  FIVE

  Lonsdale was at Northumberland Street early the following morning to write an eyewitness account of the explosion at the Court Theatre. That done, he went to see Stead, whose bright eyes and cheerful smile were due to the continued success of the workhouse story and the subsequent questions that were being asked by influential individuals about urban poverty. Lonsdale poured out all he had learned from Jamie, while the assistant editor listened without interruption. Leaving Lonsdale sitting on a stack of newspapers, Stead went to request an appointment with Morley. Moments later, he poked his head back in. ‘Mr Morley will see us now.’

  ‘Us?’ queried Lonsdale.

  ‘This requires a united front, Lonsdale. We besiege him together. Come.’

  Lonsdale followed him along the hall to Morley’s office, where the editor sat at his desk, fingers steepled. He nodded for them to sit, and his sombre gaze settled unflinchingly on his reporter.

  ‘Mr Stead tells me that you wish to continue your investigation into these murders,’ he said. ‘Pray tell me why, when the police asked us to desist.’

  ‘More information has come to light since we last spoke,’ Lonsdale began. ‘And to be frank, sir, there’s something odd about the police investigation – almost as if they want to deny that Donovan’s death is suspicious, and hope that if they obfuscate long enough, all will be forgotten.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Morley.’

  ‘There are questions that should be asked, but that the police – or rather Superintendent Ramsey – seem unwilling to pose,’ Lonsdale continued. ‘Such as why Donovan, who never missed work, was at home when he was killed? Why did he run back inside his house and lock his doors after raising the alarm? Did the chimney sweep leave a brush that caused the fire? Who was the
man killed with Cath and why was he poisoned?’

  Lonsdale then outlined all Jamie had told him about the men being lured away by women and never seen again.

  ‘Tell him about you being followed, too,’ ordered Stead when Lonsdale had finished. He glanced at Morley. ‘Followed by men involved in the luring, one of whom matches the description of a missing and very dangerous policeman – one Constable Iverson.’

  ‘Miss Friederichs told me yesterday that you were being stalked by a child – not a deadly ex-officer of the law,’ said Morley.

  ‘It was both – and more,’ said Lonsdale. ‘I was not the only one who saw the tall man in the suit – Jamie did, too.’

  Lonsdale could see that, although Stead was convinced that something was badly amiss, Morley remained sceptical. He realized he needed to present a stronger case. The inspiration hit him in the form of an article Milner had written, and as Morley admired Milner …

  ‘Do you recall Milner’s two-part article entitled “British Nomads”, sir?’ he asked, going to where Morley kept a copy of the back issues and riffling through them to find the one he wanted.

  ‘Of course,’ said Morley, pointedly consulting his fob watch.

  ‘There was a bit about marriage, and how some women select husbands.’ Lonsdale found what he was looking for and began to read:

  We will suppose that a female hawker of small wares is in want of a partner. She has ways of making money, and can maintain herself and a partner in comfortable style, but she would rather not join fortunes with one of her own sort, as such a one would arrogate supremacy in the partnership, and insist on keeping the purse. In short, she would be little better than a drudge. She therefore prefers to pick a man who will allow her to play the leading part – a fellow considerably younger than herself, whom she may rule and regulate according to her liking.

  Failing to meet the right sort on her travels, she looks elsewhere – the casual ward. Ere many evenings pass she is sure to meet just the sort of person she wants, beckons him aside, and makes a proposal that he can hardly refuse. She wants somebody to carry her baskets; she offers in return food, lodging, drink, and a little money. The work is light, and a shiftless tramp is not likely to refuse such an offer – and the woman carries off her prey.

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Morley, incredulously. ‘That your urchin’s friends are being whisked away to become kept men?’

  ‘No – I’m saying that someone is using the technique Milner described to ensnare them,’ explained Lonsdale. ‘Jamie said his friends were “picked up” by women – definitely not prostitutes – near the workhouses. These aren’t men with money for prostitutes, and he’s seen the same women at workhouses in different parts of the city. And once the men go, they never come back.’

  ‘How do you know they have not been recruited to earn an honest wage elsewhere?’ asked Morley, still sceptical. ‘Labouring, perhaps? I see no reason to think these “disappearances” are related to your murders.’

  With the editor seemingly intractable, Lonsdale decided to play his last desperate hand to convince him.

  ‘There’s one other vital piece of information,’ he said. ‘Jamie’s friends who disappeared from the workhouse are named Joseph Killian, Sean MacDermott, and Eamon O’Sullivan. Add Patrick Donovan to that, and what do you have?’

  Lonsdale held his breath, hoping that four Irish names would snag Morley’s interest, as there was little about that country that did not fascinate him.

  ‘How can you be sure it’s not coincidence?’ asked Morley, although Lonsdale saw a glimmer of curiosity flare in his cool, grey eyes.

  Lonsdale handed him page five of that morning’s Daily Telegraph. Circled near the bottom was a small note that read:

  Yesterday morning the body of John Keefe, a small farmer from Kingwilliamstown, County Cork, was found in a ditch, under circumstances that left no doubt as to his being murdered. A multitude of wounds showed that the unfortunate man had been subjected to shocking violence, and his head had been fractured and crushed to the point that the only way he was recognized was by his clothes.

  ‘With a head crushed like that, do you think he still had a cerebrum inside?’ asked Lonsdale, seeing with satisfaction that Morley’s reservations were crumbling at last.

  The editor sat in silence for a long time before speaking. ‘Lonsdale, you’ve known me long enough to appreciate that I dislike tales that appeal to the readers of police gazettes and exploitative weeklies. That said, I see you may have stumbled across a crime that might have deeper and wider-ranging consequences. We don’t know if there’s a connection between Keefe and your murders, but if there is, exposing it is our moral duty. After all, disruption in Ireland is one of the greatest threats our society faces today.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Stead. ‘It is the only ethical decision to make.’

  ‘However,’ continued Morley, ‘I do not want Miss Friederichs to investigate with you, given the obvious danger of the quest.’

  Lonsdale sincerely hoped he would not be the one assigned to tell her, but Stead waved an airy hand. ‘We need all our staff to be available for this, but I promise to keep her away from anything risky. Come, Lonsdale – there is not a moment to lose.’

  ‘Stay,’ ordered Morley as Lonsdale aimed for the door. ‘You cannot explore a case with Irish implications without a clear understanding of the nuances of the Irish situation, and much changed in the years that you were out of the country. It would be dangerous if you proved to be dealing with individuals involved in the armed struggle. So sit. I shall apprise you of the important issues and details now.’

  Stead winked at Lonsdale as he left, amused that he should use the editor’s obsession to get his way. Lonsdale floundered for an excuse to escape, too, but he saw Morley’s determined expression and realized there was none.

  Forty minutes later, Lonsdale emerged with his head spinning. He left the building quickly, unwilling to risk being waylaid by colleagues, and eager to begin his investigation in earnest now he had the editor’s approval. He decided his first task was to visit the sweep to find out if the man really had left one of his brushes up Donovan’s chimney. He remembered from the comments made by Donovan’s neighbour, Mrs North, that his name was Kendal.

  He walked to the Victoria Embankment and stopped near Cleopatra’s Needle, resting his elbows on the low wall and gazing across the greasy, grey-brown swirl of the Thames as he thought about his next move. The river stank, despite the sewer system and its elaborate pumping stations that had been built at great expense two decades before.

  While he listened to ships’ horns and the scream of gulls, he pondered how he might find the sweep. Then he recalled that Jack had recently employed one. He took a hansom home, and rifled through his brother’s desk until he found a card that read:

  J. Hanker, Chimney Sweep, respectfully begs to inform the Gentry and Inhabitants of Bayswater Road and its Vicinity that he hopes, by his unremitting Attention, to merit liberal Support.

  At the bottom was an assurance that Hanker always used clean cloths.

  The card gave an address on Woodchester Street, near the Great Western Railway, so Lonsdale set off on foot, aiming to ask Hanker for Kendal’s address – as there was bound to be some form of fraternity among fellow workers. As he walked, the houses changed from spacious mansions to middle-class semis, to working-class terraces, and finally to grimy hovels. All were located within close proximity of each other, something that upset many of the wealthier inhabitants of the city on those occasions when they let themselves think about it.

  Eventually, Lonsdale found Woodchester Street, a road with houses built from dull, charcoal-grey bricks that seemed to leach every speck of colour from their surroundings. An occasional pot of flowers had been placed in brave defiance of the monochrome. Lonsdale’s progress was monitored closely by men and boys slouching outside their houses, smoking clay pipes or cheap Early Bird cigarettes. Painfully aware of the less-than-inviting l
ooks, he knocked on Hanker’s door until it was answered by a woman holding a screaming baby.

  ‘Mr Kendal!’ yelled Lonsdale, above the ear-splitting screeches. ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Why?’ demanded the woman. ‘My husband John does chimneys better than old Kendal. When do you want him to come?’

  ‘He’s already been,’ shouted Lonsdale, then added hastily, seeing the woman’s lips harden into a thin line, ‘and a splendid job he did. We’ll most definitely ask him again. But I need to speak to Kendal about something else.’

  ‘I know, you think Kendal can do better,’ said the woman bitterly, jigging the baby up and down vigorously enough to make it sick. ‘Well, there isn’t a finer sweep in London than John. And his cloths are always clean. I wash ’em myself.’

  ‘Then tell him to come to Number Seventeen Cleveland Square next Thursday at nine o’clock,’ yelled Lonsdale, to convince her he was not taking his custom to Kendal. ‘Now, where can I find Mr Kendal?’

  The woman nodded her satisfaction. ‘All right, then. He lives on Hatton Street, the other side of Edgware Road. But if I hear you employed him over John, I’ll be round to your house – and not with clean cloths!’

  Lonsdale believed it. He escaped from her and her shrieking offspring with relief.

  Hatton Street was even more downtrodden, and equally populated with sullen, resentful men who watched him with open suspicion. Lonsdale asked one where Kendal lived. The fellow nodded at a house with planks of wood nailed over the glassless windows.

  A young woman with a white face and a tubercular cough answered Lonsdale’s knock and conducted him to a small room at the back. The sweep sat in the only chair, huddled next to a miserable fire that produced a pall of choking smoke. Lonsdale felt like recommending he have his chimney swept. A broken-down iron bed stood near the window, strewn with covers that had been coal sacks in a previous incarnation. A wooden table with a broken leg was pushed against the wall to keep it standing. The sweep himself was elderly, with red-rimmed and runny eyes. Gnarled, soot-impregnated hands clutched a dirty bottle filled with a colourless liquid. He raised it to his lips when Lonsdale entered and drank deeply.