Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Still following me, Jamie?’ he asked softly, gratified to see the alarm on the boy’s face.

  ‘Steady, old pal,’ gasped Jamie, wriggling free. ‘You fair set me old ticker racing like a pigeon’s. Why’re you leaping out on me like that?’

  ‘Why are you still following me?’ retorted Lonsdale coolly.

  ‘Because I was worried,’ explained the boy. ‘You said you’d find out about me pals, and I’m just making sure you do it – and that I can warn you if them other coves are about.’

  ‘Have you seen any of them since?’

  ‘Ol’ Big Arms,’ replied Jamie. ‘He followed you to that oyster bar, but he likes a drink, and by the time you left he was three sheets to the wind. He’s still there. You can go back and see for yourself, if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I do,’ said Lonsdale, recalling the burly man in a cloth cap. Not an informant waiting for a reporter after all.

  He walked to the nearest gas lamp and studied the lad in the light. He was shabbier than when they had last met, and his stolen clothes looked as though he had lived in them every second since. The cuffs of his trousers had been trodden into the muck of the streets, and his hat looked ready for the rag-and-bone men. Jamie sniffed, and ran the back of his hand over his nose, and Lonsdale saw the dirt deeply ingrained in his skin. The boy sneezed, then sniffed again, wetly.

  ‘A cold?’ asked Lonsdale sympathetically, holding out his handkerchief.

  ‘New-moan-yer, I ’spect,’ said Jamie, taking the proffered linen and dabbing his nose very carefully before offering it back. ‘Comes of following folks around in the cold and wet.’ He regarded Lonsdale challengingly, and the reporter laughed, thinking he had some gall to blame him for his sniffles.

  ‘So, what do you want from me this time?’ he asked, waving the handkerchief away. Jamie secreted it carefully in his pocket, and ran his sleeve across his nose instead.

  ‘You to give me a job.’

  Lonsdale stared at him. ‘A job? You mean at the paper?’

  ‘I could do it,’ Jamie assured him. ‘I can go places where you can’t and blend in. Like I’ll find out about that Walker tart for you.’

  ‘No,’ said Lonsdale immediately. ‘That’s too dangerous. However, there is something you could do. Did you hear about a fire in the chemical factory in Holborn? Two men – Frederick Kempster and Edmund Corlett – were killed back in February. I want to know what kind of people they were.’

  ‘What kind of people?’ asked Jamie, confused. ‘You mean whether they liked doxies or boys?’

  ‘Nothing so colourful. Find out if they had families, and, if so, where they live. I want to know if they were quiet or loud, rough or respectable. Ask their neighbours.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Jamie doubtfully. ‘It doesn’t sound like much of a job.’

  ‘It is,’ said Lonsdale. ‘It’s very important. And when you’ve finished in Holborn, there may be work for you in Chiswick and Peckham.’

  Jamie listened avidly while Lonsdale explained what he wanted him to do, and his eyes gleamed. ‘Really, so I’ll be a reporter?’ he asked.

  ‘An investigator,’ said Lonsdale, wondering what information the boy would bring back. Would there be a connection between the death of quiet, shy, decent Donovan and the two men in Holborn? Or was he grabbing at straws that weren’t there? Regardless, Jamie’s enquiries would save him time if it was a wild-goose chase, and if it was not, well, he could always go back and ask the same questions himself.

  ‘All right then,’ said Jamie, and held out a grimy hand. ‘But I need money for expenses.’

  Lonsdale handed him a florin and some pennies. ‘Start tomorrow. You know how to find me. And there will more when you tell me what you’ve discovered – whatever you find out. You’ll be paid regardless. Just be careful.’

  ‘I’m always careful, old pal,’ declared Jamie.

  SEVEN

  Wednesday began poorly for Lonsdale. He had slept uneasily and was woken well before six, roused by the raucous shouting of a coalman outside. An early breakfast in the kitchen, under the disapproving eye of Mrs Webster – who did not believe it was proper for a gentleman to eat at the table used by the servants – ended in disaster when Lonsdale accidentally knocked a bowl of porridge from the hands of the younger of the two maids. It splattered across the floor and the lower half of her uniform.

  On arriving in Northumberland Street, he went straight to the archive, where Hulda joined him not long after. But her presence proved more tiresome than helpful, and he began to wish he had chosen one of the others to help him – quiet, clever Milner or shy young Cook, neither of whom would have interrupted him ten times an hour with irritable sighs and grumbles.

  ‘I’m going to Bermondsey tonight,’ he said eventually. ‘To see what I can find out about Cath Walker – her friends, her life, her dreams. It’ll make the story more real, should we ever get to write it.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll write it,’ said Hulda confidently. ‘And if you’re going to Bermondsey, I’ll be with you.’ She raised a hand to quell his immediate objections. ‘It’s not negotiable, Lonsdale. I’m coming.’

  Lonsdale could tell from the determined jut of her chin that she meant it. They returned to their work, and he was pleased that the notion of an escapade to some of the city’s most notorious slums had given her food for thought, because she was quiet for a long time. In the end, it was he who broke the silence.

  ‘Hah!’ he exclaimed in the mid-afternoon, by which time his shoulders and neck were cramped from his labours. He held up a paper. ‘I think this might help me.’

  ‘Don’t you mean “help us”?’ Hulda asked archly, ‘or are you trying to pre-empt my part of this investigation?’ He bit back a brusque reply and noticed that despite the dust and cobwebs that covered her usually pristine clothes, there was something attractive about Hulda. Lonsdale found himself staring at her, almost as if for the first time. He could not help but think that she was unusually pretty and would be enticing if only …

  ‘Don’t just sit there gaping like a fish, man. Tell me what you’ve found, so I can assess if it’s relevant.’

  The spell had been shattered, not for the first time, by her opening her mouth, and he felt his customary reservations about her flood back. But, he told himself after reflecting for a moment about the advantages of working with Milner on the investigation, his and Hulda’s disguise as a couple had been successful in Wyndham Street, and he would probably be better served with Hulda in Bermondsey for the same reason. Annoyed nevertheless, he turned his chair back to the table.

  ‘Well?’ she said, looming over him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A letter to the editor in The Times,’ he replied. ‘Back in February, a man wrote about what he considered an inadequate investigation into the death of his son.’

  Hulda leaned over Lonsdale’s shoulder to read what was on the table:

  Sir – In the absence of the precise nature of William Willoughby’s demise on the railway line, the French authorities have issued a verdict of accidental death, although they acknowledged in private correspondence the possibility of suicide. The English police, rather than pressing for answers, have stated that the case is out of their jurisdiction.

  In response, I make an appeal for help, to beg that a more thorough investigation is carried out on behalf of a young man so horribly and prematurely taken from those who loved him. The close relationship of a father with his only son allows me to state with certainty that he did not end his own life. Nor would he engage in ‘larks’ that would see him accidentally killed on a railway line.

  Moreover, the manner in which his poor body was found and the high degree of anatomical knowledge shown by the crime speak clearly of his life being taken by others. The initial French investigator speculated that my son was attempting to avoid individuals who had followed him. I believe that a full investigation would reveal the complicity of such individuals, and I pray that the authorities will pursue this topic
with vigour.

  I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

  Edward St John Willoughby.

  ‘This is very sad,’ said Hulda, looking up. ‘But I don’t see—’

  ‘Now read this,’ interrupted Lonsdale, handing over a second paper. ‘It’s from the week before, and is a brief report on the son’s body being discovered in France.’

  Scotland Yard has received a communication from the French police respecting a death on a railway near Boulogne. It is stated that on the morning of 17th January the body of a young Englishman, about twenty-two years of age, was found on the railway line between Nesles and Camiers. The remains were somewhat disfigured, and had the appearance of having been run over by two trains. The top of the head was cut clean away …

  Hulda looked up at Lonsdale. ‘Is this …’ Then she bent her head without waiting for his reply and continued to read:

  One item of underclothing was marked ‘W. J. Willoughby’. The medical evidence does not show whether the young man met his death by murder, accident, or suicide, but the guard of the train states that the victim was accompanied by two other Englishmen. One spoke French well, and was about forty years of age, with a thin brown moustache. The other was large, between forty-five and fifty, and had a long beard tinged with grey. The trio appeared to be friendly, and were seen laughing. The guard last saw the party together shortly before Étaples. Anyone knowing any of these men is requested to contact Scotland Yard.

  ‘Here’s the final piece about it,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Dated five days after the initial report and two days before the letter to the editor.’

  Hulda read:

  The French authorities are now satisfied that Mr Willoughby died accidentally. The door of his carriage was not properly fastened, and it has been suggested that he opened the window to lean out, and fell to his death. It has now been shown that he was the only occupant of the carriage at the time, his companions having alighted at Étaples. His watch and chain remain missing, but vagrants have been spotted in the vicinity, so it is concluded that the items were stolen after the victim’s death. The deceased’s father has contested the verdict, on the basis that the injuries sustained are inconsistent with being hit by a train, particularly pertaining to the head. The French authorities have expressed their deepest sympathy for his loss, but remain convinced that further investigation will serve no purpose.

  ‘The French police are worse than ours,’ she said, looking up at last. ‘He was with friends, he was on his own. He jumped, he was pushed, he fell. They have no idea. And if there is a question about the injury to his head – it is similar to that inflicted on Donovan – well, all I can say is that trains do not remove cerebra. Not surgically, at least.’

  ‘We don’t know that’s what happened to him,’ said Lonsdale. ‘But we’re going to find out. I’ll contact a friend at The Times and ask for the father’s address. His letter suggests he’ll be willing to tell us everything he knows.’

  ‘When shall we go?’ asked Hulda yet again, as they sat in the reporters’ office. ‘It’s almost six. Surely the layabouts of Bermondsey and their whores will be awake by now?’

  Cook blushed at her coarseness, but Lonsdale ignored her. He had already told her several times that there was little point in going before ten, as people would be more willing to divulge information in the cosy camaraderie of a pub in the late hours than they would when they were alert and sober. He tried to concentrate on the letter he was writing to Willoughby, and couldn’t help but think he was already reaching the depths Milner had predicted: requesting an interview with a bereaved parent. But it wasn’t like that, he told himself – he was doing the right thing.

  After a while, Hulda grew restless, and began to poke around in Voules’s belongings, moving his pens, ink and pencils so he would be unable to find them. She fidgeted with boredom, then tried to start a conversation with Cook, and finally became exasperated and went home to change.

  Returning to the archive, Lonsdale laboured on until well past nine o’clock, after which he changed into some grubby clothes he had brought with him and joined Cook for a snack in the reporters’ office.

  ‘You’re filthy,’ the younger man said. ‘Perfect for going to rough taverns in Bermondsey. But are you sure you don’t want me to come? I know The Friederichs is a veritable gorgon, but I don’t see her being much use in a fight.’

  Lonsdale was not so sure about that. ‘There won’t be any fighting,’ he said. ‘But I’d better go. If I’m late, she might decide to trawl the taverns on her own.’

  ‘She might,’ agreed Cook. ‘But be careful, Alec – for her as well as yourself. She might be the Prussian Governess, but she’s our Prussian Governess, and I’m fond of her.’

  Outside, a blanket of yellow-grey fog hung over the city. It had been thickening all day, so that by mid-afternoon it had been necessary to turn on the gaslights, and the street traffic had become very snarled. The air reeked of soot and smoke, and carried a sharp chill that was unusual for the spring.

  As Lonsdale pulled shut the office door in the dim light of the overhead lamp, a woman swayed towards him, swinging her purse. She was clearly drunk, and Lonsdale thought she needed to take herself in hand unless she wanted to be arrested for prostitution. She stopped next to him, closer than was decent.

  ‘Can I call you a hansom, madam?’ he asked, edging away.

  ‘It’s me, you idiot!’ snapped Hulda in a hoarse whisper. ‘Who did you think I was? A whore?’

  Lonsdale was at a loss for words. She had exchanged her usual skirts and stays for a dress that fell in thick folds to the floor. Her fair hair was bundled up into a peculiar turban-like hat, and a bright neckerchief was knotted around her throat. To keep warm, she wore a shawl that was fastened at the front with a cheap brooch. It was not so much her clothes that had led him to jump to the conclusion that she was touting for business, but the undulating walk she had adopted.

  ‘It occurred to me it would look odd if a well-dressed lady was seen in company with a ruffian like you,’ she added, when Lonsdale had nothing to say. ‘So, I thought I’d wear the clothes I use for cycling.’

  ‘You cycle?’ asked Lonsdale, glad he had not congratulated her on her disguise if this was an outfit she liked to wear in public.

  ‘Of course! How else would I get to archery on Saturday afternoons? Hansoms can’t be had for love or money at that time, and walking is such a waste of time. Do you cycle?’

  ‘Not unless my life depends on it. Metal wheels on cobbles … they don’t make for a comfortable journey.’

  ‘That’s why I like horse manure on the streets,’ confided Hulda. ‘There’s nothing like it for softening the surface.’

  As no suitable response came to Lonsdale’s mind, he changed the subject. ‘I recommend we take a hansom to Great Dover Street, and walk the rest of the way.’

  ‘Walk?’ objected Hulda. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the kind of people we need to meet tonight can’t afford hansoms, and if we arrive in one, we’ll stand out like a bishop in a brothel from the start.’

  Hulda peered at him in the gloom. ‘You seem very sure about the way the seedier areas of London work. Have you done this many times before?’

  ‘That, Friederichs, is none of your business,’ said Lonsdale loftily. In fact, his first commission with The PMG had been to write a series of articles on the Billingsgate Fish Market, which had led him to frequent some of the less salubrious areas of London. He was surprised she did not recall the pieces, since they had caused a vigorous debate between Morley, who maintained that Lonsdale’s descriptions of poverty were exaggerated, and Stead, who stoutly asserted they were not.

  They flagged down a hansom and gave the driver directions. Hulda’s outfit and Lonsdale’s dirty clothes were evidently convincing, because the driver demanded to see their money before he would accept their custom.

  In the cab, both covered their mouths and noses with their sleeves, to avoid inhaling the moist, sulphurous f
og. The gas lamps hardly penetrated the fug, and it was only on Blackfriars Bridge, where new electric lights had been installed, that they could see more than two or three feet ahead. The black sludge of the Thames could just be seen sliding fast and sleek through the arches below.

  Eventually, they reached Great Dover Street; as soon as his fares alighted, the driver beat a hasty retreat to the more affluent areas of the city. Lonsdale and Hulda continued deeper into the slums, walking down roads that were foul with dirt and refuse. Hulda adopted a curious hopping gait as she struggled not to step in anything vile.

  Eventually they reached Westcott Street, where Cath had rented a room. It was narrow, with tall houses on either side, reducing the road to little more than a dingy tunnel. There was a lamp at each end, but it was mostly the domain of darkness and fog. Hulda and Lonsdale walked along its entire seedy length to get a feel for the place. At the far end, a lamp lit a sign that read, ‘Board School’.

  ‘A school? Here?’ asked Hulda.

  ‘Like the one in Nicholas Nickleby. A home for orphans, probably,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Here we are, in the great capital of Victoria’s Empire, and this is how we look after our wards of state. Hardly makes you proud, does it?’

  ‘Walker lived at number twenty-nine,’ said Hulda, looking away in disgust. ‘It’s over there.’

  Lonsdale approached the house, but there was no reply to his knock. He stepped back and peered up, noting that the eaves were rotting and most of the windows were boarded over. The place looked abandoned. Something fluttered on the ground at his feet, and when he bent to retrieve it, he saw it was a notice of eviction – the building had been condemned as structurally unsound.

  ‘Mrs Tanner gave this as her permanent address at the inquest,’ objected Hulda when he showed it to her, ‘and that was only a few days ago. Did she lie?’

  ‘Not necessarily. The notice is dated yesterday, so she was doubtless in business here until the very last minute …’