Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘You sound like Galton,’ muttered Jack, eyeing him suspiciously and very nervously.

  Shortly after one o’clock, Emilia and Anne arrived by private carriage. They were clearly sisters: tall, dark eyed, slim, and with naturally curly hair brushed back into a bun at the nape of the neck in the popular fashion of the day. Emelia’s was dark brown; Anne’s was lighter, almost blond. Lonsdale found Anne, the elder by just over two years, not only much prettier but far more charming.

  Emelia was also nervous of the first meeting between Anne and Lonsdale, although he could not imagine why, as Anne seemed a rational, intelligent woman, not at all the prim, dull spinster he had feared. Knowing that the affianced couple were more concerned that Anne might not like him rather than the other way around, he went out of his way to be as courteous and pleasing as possible.

  Most of the conversation at the meal revolved around the changes that Emelia would make to Jack’s house when she became mistress of it. Bored, Lonsdale asked Emelia to describe how she and Jack had met, knowing she loved to recount the tale. However, in the presence of Anne, he learned two things Emelia and Jack had not told him before – that Emelia had only attended the meeting to support the Married Women’s Property Act because Anne had begged her to, and that Jack had only been there because a colleague had done the same to him. Lonsdale wondered why Jack had persisted in his courtship, given that he and Emelia had little in common, but saw from Jack’s besotted expression that no amount of reasoning or logic would convince him that he could do better.

  Even when Emelia rose from the table and began to walk around the room pointing out items that would have to be removed or changed when she was in charge, Jack watched her dotingly, and Lonsdale saw that there was nothing he would not do for her. Yet how dull she was! He glanced at Anne and saw that she had been studying him. Embarrassed to be caught, she quickly looked away.

  After the meal, Emelia suggested a stroll around the square onto which Jack’s house backed. The engaged couple walked leisurely arm-in-arm, while the chaperones followed behind, Lonsdale with his hands clasped behind his back, and Anne clutching her pelisse.

  ‘Do you think my brother’s house needs complete renovation?’ Lonsdale asked, as he heard Emelia’s high-pitched assurance that dark-blue flock wallpaper would look charming in the morning room.

  ‘I wouldn’t presume to judge. At the risk of sounding radical, I believe people should decorate the inside of their homes as suits them, rather than as convention dictates.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Lonsdale, pleasantly surprised. ‘In Africa, houses are designed for comfort, and fashion is a very distant second.’

  Anne transpired to be an easy, pleasant conversationalist once away from her silly younger sister, and they soon advanced from Mr Lonsdale and Miss Humbage to Alec and Anne. She and Emelia had spent their early years in India – the daughters of a former brigadier – and she talked intelligently and astutely about it. She listened with fascination as Lonsdale spoke of Africa – the lands, peoples, and wildlife. He was surprised to find he was enjoying himself.

  ‘Your descriptions make me wish to visit Africa,’ said Anne. ‘It’s obvious you care about it, so why did you leave?’

  ‘Because of the actions and attitudes of some of those in charge,’ said Lonsdale. ‘I was a Colonial Service administrator, first under Bartle Frere in Zanzibar and then General Wolseley in the Gold Coast and Ashanti. I served under both again in southern Africa. But for every gem like Sir Henry or Sir Garnet, there were other governors or commissioners who were morally bankrupt. Eventually, Owen Lanyon’s treatment of the Boers and the other Africans became so oppressive and bigoted that I resigned.’

  ‘But I thought Jack said you were at Whitehall after you returned home.’

  ‘When I reached London, I found my resignation had been treated as a reassignment to the Colonial Office itself. I suspect Wolseley was behind that, because by that time he was back in England, but he’s never admitted it. However, it still wasn’t what I wanted, so after eight months I resigned again.’

  ‘And now you’re a reporter.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, not mentioning that he would not be a real one unless he earned the full-time post. He glanced at her. ‘How do you spend your days?’

  ‘Wishing I had what you do: the freedom to live my life as I want, without being hindered by social constraints. I want to wear comfortable clothes, not silly dresses that are so tight I feel hobbled like a horse. And I want to study at the university, to read philosophy and politics as I please, and to vote for the government that runs my country.’

  ‘That’s not unreasonable,’ said Lonsdale.

  ‘I’m glad to hear you think so,’ said Anne, and smiled.

  Lonsdale’s stomach did a curious little flip, and he felt not a little irritated that Jack and Emelia should have conspired to keep this pretty, intelligent woman away from him for so long.

  SIX

  As Lonsdale had been told that he would not be needed until Monday afternoon, he decided to see if the pathologist Bradwell had any new information to share. He pushed open the mortuary door and was startled to see a number of policemen gathered in the hallway. Inspector Peters was there, fiddling with his pipe, while Bradwell leaned nonchalantly against a wall next to him, oblivious to the black mould that stained his coat.

  ‘Lonsdale,’ drawled the inspector. ‘Ever a man at the scene of a crime, I see. Well, I want a word with you.’

  ‘That sounds ominous,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Why?’

  ‘You went to see the sweep, Kendal,’ said Peters. ‘Even though my superiors ordered you to leave Donovan’s death for the police to explore.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Lonsdale, unrepentant. ‘It was an enlightening conversation, and has convinced me even more that something is badly amiss.’

  He outlined the sweep’s discovery of the rags in the chimney and what they might have meant. When he had finished, Peters was scowling.

  ‘So why did he say nothing of this to us?’ he demanded.

  ‘He did, sir,’ said a young policeman with a mop of ginger hair, overhearing. He hastened to explain himself. ‘But he was drunk – he said he’d already spoken to the police, but that was a lie because I was the first sent to interview him. I assumed he was trying to worm his way out of being blamed.’

  ‘I see,’ said Peters, turning his lugubrious stare on the young officer, who blushed and began a detailed study of the mud on his boots.

  ‘The “policeman” Kendal referred to had a scar through his eyebrow,’ announced Lonsdale, unable to resist a touch of the dramatic.

  ‘No!’ gulped the lad in alarm. ‘I meant … I didn’t ask for a description, but why would I? He was drunk, so I thought he was making it all up. As I said, I was the only one sent …’

  Peters pursed his lips. ‘Then you’d better go and talk to him again, lad. Determine for certain if it was Iverson who quizzed him.’

  Eager to make amends, the constable hurried out. ‘So someone deliberately started the fire to hide that Donovan had been mutilated,’ said Bradwell. He glanced at Peters. ‘I think you should take Lonsdale into your confidence, because we need all the help we can get, and you cannot rely on your superiors to supply it.’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ acknowledged Peters, tiredly.

  Lonsdale looked from one to the other. ‘Has something happened? Why are all these officers here?’

  ‘Because our killer has just acquired himself another cerebrum,’ said Bradwell, ‘from here, right under our noses.’

  Lonsdale stared down at the body on the dissecting table. The injury looked like the one Bradwell had shown him on his first visit, although this victim was older and fitter. There was a gaping wound in the neck, although the head seemed to be intact.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Donovan’s head was crushed, but this one seems normal enough.’

  ‘Look closer,’ instructed Bradwell. Seeing Lonsdale’s bemusement, he sighed impa
tiently. ‘No, closer! You won’t see anything from back there, and it won’t bite.’

  Lonsdale was disinclined to pore over corpses just to satisfy Bradwell. ‘Just point out what I’m missing,’ he suggested. ‘It will be quicker.’

  Bradwell slipped his hand under the fringe of hair that dropped across the body’s forehead and lifted it. Underneath, there was a thin, but distinct incision.

  ‘I take it you didn’t do that,’ said Lonsdale.

  ‘Why would I look at the head of a body with a slashed throat?’ asked Bradwell. ‘I don’t have time. In cases like this, where the cause of death is obvious, I perform the briefest of examinations and move on. If I performed a complete, extensive examination on every one, we would be drowning in them.’

  ‘Do so many people suffer violent deaths, then?’ asked Lonsdale.

  ‘Fortunately not,’ replied Bradwell. ‘Most die from dysentery, phthisis, children’s fevers, or diseases of the heart and lungs – such as heart attacks, pneumonia, and bronchitis – not to mention accidents.’

  Lonsdale indicated the corpse on the table. ‘So how can you be sure that this cut wasn’t made by his killer?’

  Bradwell looked indignant. ‘I may be forced to work fast, but I always follow specific procedures. I look for stab marks on the torso, look in the mouth for blistering or discoloration from poison, look at the hands and forearms for any evidence of self-defence, and check the skull for dents and bumps.’

  Lonsdale raised his eyebrows. ‘Even when it’s obvious that the person died of a disease or an accident?’

  Bradwell nodded. ‘I’ve seen many cases where a family has hastened the end of an ill relative.’

  Lonsdale stared down at the body. ‘So when was he …’

  ‘Some time between when I finished his post mortem on Thursday night and about two hours ago, when the body was due to be released for burial. But I imagine it happened last night, after O’Connor and I had gone home. Sundays are always quiet here.’

  ‘And the cerebrum is gone?’

  Bradwell peeled back the scalp to reveal a circular groove in the bone, where the uppermost part had been sliced through, like taking the top off a hard-boiled egg. He eased the detached cap away, and Lonsdale saw a dark cavity coated with a yellowish-grey matter and clots of blood.

  ‘What do you think, Lonsdale?’ asked Peters, calmly puffing at his pipe, which, mixed with the smell of death and disinfectant, made Lonsdale slightly queasy.

  ‘That whoever did this must have lost control of his wits. Have any of the other bodies been …?’ He hesitated. The words savaged, despoiled, or mutilated seemed too brutal for such a clinical procedure.

  ‘No,’ said Bradwell. ‘I’ve been uneasy since I was almost fooled over Donovan’s death, so I’ve inspected every corpse as it arrives, then again when it’s released. Thank God I did!’

  ‘How did the culprit get in?’ asked Lonsdale.

  ‘Through the small window at the back. It’s not the first time we’ve been burgled that way, despite it being seven feet off the ground. Thieves think we keep the personal effects of the deceased here, but few people we house have much worth stealing.’

  ‘That depends on your standards,’ said Lonsdale, thinking about the workhouse. ‘Have you asked around for potential witnesses?’

  ‘Around here?’ asked Peters archly. ‘The rule of the folk in this area is “see nothing, hear nothing, know nothing”, especially if it’s the police who ask.’

  ‘But surely they’d only keep quiet if the culprit was someone they knew,’ persisted Lonsdale. ‘They wouldn’t lie to protect a stranger, would they?’

  ‘Even a criminal has a greater claim on their allegiance than a police officer,’ said Peters. ‘They—’

  Suddenly there was a loud knock at the door to the post-mortem theatre, followed by an irate demand to open up at once. Peters turned quickly to Lonsdale and pointed towards a large closet. With a shock, Lonsdale saw he expected him to hide there.

  ‘Superintendent Ramsey might not be as understanding about your meddling as I’ve been,’ said Peters, when Lonsdale hesitated. ‘Hurry, man! He might order you arrested.’

  Reluctantly, Lonsdale did as he was told, entering a tiny room containing stacks of reports on shelves. He did not close the door completely, but held it open a crack so that he could watch and listen.

  Ramsey strode in like a Shakespearian actor, Leonard at his heels like a faithful dog. The superintendent immediately began a furious diatribe, although Leonard smiled genially and nodded friendly greetings to his colleagues. Lonsdale was wondering how two such completely different individuals could work together, when a vision of Hulda sprang to mind. Leonard probably had no more control over whom he worked with than did Lonsdale.

  ‘This is an outrage!’ stormed Ramsey. ‘Is nowhere safe? What are you doing about it, Bradwell?’

  ‘There’s not much I can do,’ responded the surgeon with a shrug. ‘O’Connor has boarded up the broken window. I’d board up the others, too, but my budget won’t allow it. As it was, O’Connor had to use wood taken from a pile near a railway line.’

  ‘You stole wood to mend police property?’ breathed the superintendent, aghast. ‘What do you think the newspapers would make of that?’

  Bradwell’s patience was wearing thin. ‘I imagine they’d suggest giving me more money,’ he snapped. ‘The Metropolitan Police pay nothing towards the upkeep of the building. Look in the hall. If you wondered why it’s so dark, it’s because the gas pipes have been stolen, and your finance department has ignored my requests for replacements for eighteen months.’

  ‘There’s no need for light in the hall,’ said Ramsey defensively. ‘It’s not as if the occupants need to see their way out.’ He gestured at the gleaming tray of instruments. ‘Moreover, you can’t possibly need all those knives. One is sufficient, surely? Learn to manage your budget properly, man.’

  Seeing the surgeon’s face turn white with anger, Leonard stepped forward to intervene. Lonsdale imagined that he probably had a good deal of experience in calming waters troubled by his pompous, acerbic senior officer.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell us what happened,’ he suggested gently. He nodded to the body. ‘How came it to lose—’

  ‘I haven’t finished my examination yet,’ said Bradwell, his temper barely under control. ‘You’ll have to wait.’

  He selected the largest knife from his arsenal of weapons and waved it in a way that was vaguely threatening. Hastily, Ramsey suggested he and his officers wait elsewhere, so Bradwell would not be distracted. Before Peters could object, Ramsey strode towards Lonsdale’s hiding place.

  Alarmed, Lonsdale looked around for a place to hide, and saw that the only possibility was behind a short cabinet at the back. He shot towards it and crouched down just as the door flew open and Ramsey marched in.

  ‘This place is a disgrace,’ the superintendent muttered. With horror, Lonsdale saw Ramsey’s feet come closer, and realized that he intended to perch on the pile of papers directly in front of him.

  ‘Here is a chair, sir,’ Peters said, quickly grabbing one from next to the door and placing it so Ramsey’s back was towards Lonsdale.

  ‘I’m not sure Bradwell’s appointment was wise,’ said Ramsey, once Leonard had closed the door and all three – four including Lonsdale – were crowded inside. Lonsdale was tempted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. ‘The man’s a fool. We never had problems like this with old Dr Robbins.’

  ‘But Bradwell’s reports don’t make me want to request second opinions,’ said Peters. ‘We’re lucky to have a man of his calibre. Don’t forget that he covers the entire district north of the Thames, and we only pay him for twenty hours a week, regardless of how much time he works.’

  ‘But this place is a disgrace,’ Ramsey growled again, kicking at a stain on the floor.

  ‘Very true,’ agreed Peters. ‘But that’s hardly his fault.’

  ‘So what do you plan to do
about this stolen brain business?’ Ramsey snapped. ‘House enquiries around here will be useless. Have you checked the lunatic asylums for escapees? God knows, only a lunatic can be responsible for this outrage.’

  ‘I’ve two men making enquiries as we speak. Yet I wonder if this may be the work not of random madmen but someone with a desire for specific human organs.’

  Ramsey groaned. ‘Lord help us! What depths some folk will sink to! Are there any links between the fellow in the fire and the chap whose body’s just been violated?’

  ‘I cannot tell you that, sir. You took me off the Donovan case, if you recall.’

  ‘Besides, there is the matter of jurisdiction,’ put in Leonard. ‘Peters is in Division D, but the most recent mutilation—’

  ‘Philip Yeats,’ put in Peters, causing Lonsdale to blink at yet another Irish name.

  ‘—is in Division M,’ finished Leonard. ‘Southwark.’

  ‘To hell with that administrative nonsense,’ barked Ramsey. ‘I want Peters investigating both these corpses – sort it out, Leonard. It’s obvious there’s a connection between Donovan and Yeats. Forget the other two – the whore and her accomplice.’

  ‘But they’re—’ began Peters.

  ‘We need to be seen on the Yeats murder,’ interrupted Ramsey. ‘When news that two desecrations have occurred seeps out, the press will be demanding an arrest.’

  ‘Yeats died five days ago,’ said Peters placatingly. ‘His murder is old news, so there’s no reason why this should leak out.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake, let’s keep it that way. This must be kept from reporters. The last thing we want is headlines declaring that we have organ-stealing murderers on the rampage – especially ones who strike at men like Yeats. I’d lose my position for certain.’

  ‘Men like Yeats?’ asked Peters, bemused. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘He was a music-hall entertainer,’ explained Leonard. ‘He’s famous in his way.’