Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Jack. ‘You know that you can stay here for as long as you like.’

  ‘Emelia will have something to say about that,’ said Lonsdale ruefully. ‘She and I disagree on so many things that you’d never have a moment of peace.’

  ‘That, unfortunately, is true,’ said Jack. ‘Speaking of which, Em was vexed when you failed to appear last night. So was I, while Anne was openly disappointed.’

  ‘Was she?’ asked Lonsdale keenly. ‘Then perhaps I’ll call on her to apologize.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ said Jack sternly. ‘I suspect you’d receive a chilly reception from my future father-in-law, and I should be on hand to mediate. Sir Gervais is a difficult man, and I won’t have you upsetting the apple cart.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘He spent most of last night complaining that my house smelled of India.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Lonsdale, grinning back, glad the momentary spat was over. ‘Mrs Webster gave me some of her curry this morning. It was … powerful.’

  Jack nodded. ‘She blamed you when I told her it was inedible. She claimed the recipe was one that you’d brought back from Afghanistan.’

  ‘But I’ve never been to Afghanistan, and none of my recipes call for a pound of chilli powder, I assure you.’

  Before Jack could answer, the front doorbell rang, and a moment later Hulda was shown in.

  ‘What do you want?’ Lonsdale asked coolly, having neither forgotten nor forgiven her selfishness over the hansom the previous night.

  ‘Alec!’ breathed Jack, and turned quickly to Hulda. ‘Forgive our poor manners, madam. We’re unused to visitors at such an early hour.’

  ‘Friederichs,’ Lonsdale said with ill-disguised hostility, ‘may I introduce my brother, Mr Jack Lonsdale of the Inner Temple. Jack, this is Miss Hulda Friederichs, reporter from The PMG and dangerous company.’

  She did not rise to the bait, but stared down at her hands, folded demurely in her stole. Lonsdale’s suspicions rose – Hulda was never demure unless she had an ulterior motive. All sweet charm, she accepted Jack’s offer of tea, and then made a series of polite remarks on the house’s décor.

  Lonsdale felt his temper rise at her flagrantly transparent attempts to appear the upright, well-behaved lady. ‘What do you want, Friederichs?’ he asked curtly.

  ‘It’s … personal,’ replied Hulda, blushing shyly. Her lower lip trembled, and, with horror, he saw she was about to cry.

  Immediately, Jack was at her side to present her with a clean handkerchief. ‘Calm yourself, madam, and tell us how we might help.’

  ‘I need to speak to your brother,’ said Hulda, and gave a brave little smile. ‘Alone.’

  ‘Impossible! Leave you unaccompanied with a single man? Your reputation—’

  ‘It’s quite all right, dear Mr Lonsdale,’ said Hulda, closing her eyes and touching her forehead with the back of her hand in a dramatic gesture Lonsdale had only ever seen used in bad comedies at the theatre. ‘I trust your brother with my honour.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Jack, standing reluctantly. ‘I’ll be across the hall if you need anything.’

  ‘Never mind her calls for help,’ hissed Lonsdale. ‘You’re more likely to have one from me!’

  As soon as Jack closed the door, Hulda’s façade of timid vulnerability disappeared. She abandoned her chair and went to the table, where she began to help herself to the remains of their breakfast.

  ‘What a stuffed shirt, Lonsdale! I wouldn’t tell him too much about our work if I were you. He might faint.’

  ‘He’s a good man,’ said Lonsdale stiffly. ‘And if you came here to insult my family, you can—’

  ‘No, no,’ interrupted Hulda quickly. ‘I’m sure he meant well. Do you have any preserves?’

  She began removing the lids of various pots and dishes to see what was inside.

  Lonsdale’s patience began to wear thin. ‘What do you want, Friederichs? I’m going to cover an exhibition at the British Museum in a minute, so tell me what you need and go.’

  ‘You’re an ungracious beast, Lonsdale,’ said Hulda, unperturbed. ‘I came to apologize, if you must know.’

  ‘Apologize?’ asked Lonsdale suspiciously.

  ‘I should have let you share the cab, especially since you put up such a splendid fight against those ruffians. And I should have told you what I’d reasoned. But the truth is, once I’d started thinking about it, my solution didn’t work, but I was loath to admit it.’

  For several seconds, the only sound was the chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall.

  ‘You confess you were wrong?’ asked Lonsdale.

  ‘You’re not making this very easy,’ grumbled Hulda reproachfully. ‘Yes. I was wrong, although if you tell anyone else, I shall deny it. I was wrong to abandon you last night, and I have not solved the case.’

  ‘So where does that leave us?’

  ‘With Bradwell,’ said Hulda, taking a large bite of toast.

  ‘Bradwell?’ echoed Lonsdale warily.

  Hulda waved the toast at him. ‘Would you know how to remove a cerebrum? I wouldn’t. But he would – maybe he’s conducting some kind of macabre experiment on corpses. Superintendent Ramsey is suspicious of him – you told me that he thought Bradwell might have taken Yeats’s cerebrum, as it went missing while in his care.’

  ‘But it was Bradwell who started our investigation by pointing out that Donovan was missing a cerebrum. If he was the thief, why draw attention to the crime?’

  Hulda waved an airy hand. ‘Yes, there are problems with my theory, so it needs further investigation. I suppose it’s what the Americans would crudely call “a hunch”.’

  Lonsdale was bemused. ‘But I thought you liked him. He is certainly enthralled by you.’

  ‘He is, but that could be a ploy to confuse us – all gushing admiration for The PMG’s most astute reporter.’

  Lonsdale ignored her hubris. ‘So your suspicions are based on the fact that he works in a mortuary and has access to corpses.’

  ‘And that he has a family to support, but his post at Bart’s is poorly paid. He needs a second income, yet he chooses to work for the pittance offered by the Metropolitan Police – he could earn a fortune in private practice. Why?’

  ‘Perhaps he isn’t very good with living patients.’

  ‘I checked,’ said Hulda. ‘He’s excellent, according to his colleagues. It is my contention that Bradwell chooses to be a police surgeon because it allows him to use corpses as subjects for some dark and sinister research. Moreover, a couple of months ago, I visited the City of London Police mortuary – the one on Golden Lane. It was well staffed and brightly lit.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I learned that Bradwell was offered a post there, but that he declined it. I’m no connoisseur of such places, but Golden Lane is a lot nicer than the mortuary he runs. Why opt for dirty, old, under-funded, when he could have new, bright and clear? It makes no sense – unless he happens to like working with a single assistant, rather than a team, and in a place where visitors rarely tread.’

  Lonsdale could not believe that the man who had been so helpful would transpire to be the culprit, but supposed there was no harm in humouring her.

  ‘Then shall we pay him a visit and see what he has to say for himself?’

  ‘Unfortunately, he’s taken his family to Brighton, and won’t return until next week.’

  ‘Brighton? Why would he go there? Especially now, when we need his expertise?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Hulda, with satisfaction. ‘The plot thickens, eh, Lonsdale?’

  Shortly after Hulda had left, jaws still working on the toast she had filched, Lonsdale received a letter from the father of William Willoughby, the young man who had been killed in France. Willoughby Senior was elderly and unable to travel to London, so Lonsdale was asked to meet him in Brookwood, the closest village with a train station to Willoughby’s home in Bisley.

  To expedite matters, the envelope also contained a first-
class ticket for the ten thirty a.m. train the following day, a Saturday. Willoughby also promised a longer letter would arrive before Lonsdale left the next morning. Lonsdale was pleased, hoping that the interview would provide information that would allow him to develop an alternative solution to the one Hulda had proposed. He disliked – and was generally sceptical of – the notion of Bradwell being involved in anything untoward.

  NINE

  Lonsdale left the house and went directly to the British Museum, where he spent much of the morning at the ‘Religions of the Empire’ exhibition. Afterwards, feeling he would make better progress alone than in the reporters’ room, he went to the Museum Tavern across Great Russell Street. He ordered shepherd’s pie, which he ate while he wrote a review of the exhibition.

  When he had finished, Lonsdale hurried to Northumberland Street and handed the article to Stead. The assistant editor read it quickly, the fingers of one hand drumming his desk, while the other hand dipped into a dish of sultanas. His jaws worked rhythmically and he nodded approval of the piece at the same time. Idly, Lonsdale wondered how he managed to carry out so many completely independent movements and read at the same time.

  Stead finished, then assumed his customary position – feet on the desk and chair tilted back at a precarious angle. Sultanas sailed through the air towards his mouth, but before he could say anything, there was a perfunctory knock at the door and Hulda entered. Without so much as a nod or greeting, she launched into her suspicions regarding Bradwell.

  ‘No!’ snapped Stead, slapping a hand on the table, sending sultanas cartwheeling across the room. ‘This accusation is absurd! I know Bradwell.’

  ‘But the evidence,’ began Hulda.

  Stead raised one arm, closed his eyes, and tipped his face towards the ceiling. Not even Hulda could ignore such a peculiar posture, and she faltered into silence.

  ‘You’re grasping for solutions willy-nilly,’ he said, standing and beginning to pace. Lonsdale leaned down to retrieve some of the sultanas before Stead ground them into the carpet, dropping them back into the bowl. Eventually, Stead sat again and began to eat the fruit that Lonsdale had picked up. ‘The notion of Bradwell using corpses to conduct unsavoury experiments is too ridiculous to entertain.’

  ‘So what should we do now?’ asked Hulda. ‘Write up the facts that we’ve uncovered so far, and leave our readers to form their own conclusions?’

  ‘Facts?’ demanded Stead. ‘You have no facts – just gross speculation or downright slander.’

  ‘Not so,’ objected Hulda indignantly. ‘We know that Walker did have information about missing people, and we have learned some of their names. We also know that Donovan is connected to them, and that Iverson is involved.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Stead impatiently. ‘But you don’t know why! What you can report at the moment isn’t the essence of a great story. We need to know why they went missing, and why someone killed Donovan and desecrated his body.’

  He tipped the last of the sultanas into his hand from the bowl. He gazed at it, slightly puzzled. ‘How curious! I thought I had more of these. Have you two been eating them?’

  ‘There are few things more repellent than a sultana,’ replied Lonsdale in distaste.

  ‘In that case,’ said Hulda, ‘I recommend we travel to Brighton and—’

  ‘No!’ snapped Stead crossly. ‘Leave Bradwell alone. What happens now is that Lonsdale will continue trawling the archive, while you, Miss Friederichs, will write about the Americans’ disastrous North Pole expedition.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Hulda sulkily.

  ‘The one where the ship sank, two-thirds of the crew are either dead or missing, and reporters from The New York Herald are racing all over Siberia interfering with the search for survivors,’ said Stead. ‘So off you go.’

  While Hulda went to the reporters’ office, Lonsdale – knowing she would be down in the archive within minutes to rant about Stead’s interference – left the building and hurried to Scotland Yard, hoping for a word with Peters. But the inspector was out, so he turned to retrace his steps, hoping enough time had lapsed to spare him a tirade from Hulda.

  Had he not been so preoccupied, he would have noticed the tall, well-dressed gentleman gaping at him as their paths crossed, Lonsdale leaving the building and the man on his way in.

  The man watched Lonsdale hurry away with a combination of disbelief, anger and frustration. How could the reporter still be alive, given that he had been assured that no fewer than six men would make certain he could not continue any investigation? Yet he was, and moreover he was clearly still actively pressing his enquiries – given that there could be no other reason for his presence at the Yard. The PMG knew little so far that could prove awkward, but it was only a matter of time before that changed. And once that happened, there would be serious repercussions.

  But the man had no intention of letting matters go that far. Full of resolve, he entered the building for his meeting.

  Lonsdale spent much of the afternoon conducting his search through recent newspapers, uninterrupted until Milner walked in shaking his head.

  ‘The Prussian Governess won’t stop grumbling about Stead,’ Milner said, leaning against a filing cabinet, then inspecting the dust on his sleeve with annoyance. ‘Even though he gave her the North Pole story.’

  ‘Would you have liked it?’ asked Lonsdale, glad of the interruption, as his hours among old papers that day had yielded nothing new and he was bored, tired and disheartened.

  ‘My goodness, yes!’ said Milner. ‘A rival paper sends its own expedition to the Arctic, and it ends up an unmitigated disaster? Who wouldn’t want to write about that? Even the relief expedition was a catastrophe, needing yet another relief expedition to save it! It certainly has a great deal of drama and, if nothing else, it’s a chance to snipe at Harris.’

  Lonsdale carried a pile of copies of The Daily Telegraph to the table, then wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘It does sound more appealing than grubbing around in this lot.’

  ‘Don’t give up,’ said Milner, perching on the table. ‘I’ve been mulling over what you told me, and I think I was wrong to say the matter would be horrible, but not important.’

  ‘You do? What changed your mind?’ asked Lonsdale hopefully.

  Milner gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘Just a feeling. It seems to me that you may have not just a single killer, but a group of them with a common purpose.’

  ‘What common purpose?’

  ‘Now that I cannot tell you – not yet. But I’ll keep pondering and perhaps something will occur to me. Incidentally, a message from Francis Galton arrived a few minutes ago. He wrote that five o’clock will be a good time for you to arrive at his house today, and he has invited you to stay for dinner afterwards.

  Lonsdale grimaced. He had forgotten about Galton’s invitation, and was not in the mood for more tedious stories or admiring a collection of dried grasses, in which he had no interest whatsoever.

  ‘A reporter should be interested in everything,’ said Milner, reading his mind. ‘Cheer up, Alec. Perhaps he will tell you something about his cousin Darwin. Then you can write it up, and Morley will have to give you a permanent job here. But meanwhile, you’d better go home and change soon. You can’t arrive at his house dressed like a ragamuffin.’

  Lonsdale dressed carefully for his meeting with Galton, selecting a black lounge coat and matching evening trousers of doeskin, offset with a light grey waistcoat. Galton lived in a handsome house at a corner of Rutland Gate, just south of Hyde Park. The door was white with shiny brass fitments, and Lonsdale had hardly taken his hand off the knocker before it was answered by a haughty butler with an amply bejowled face. Lonsdale was shown into Galton’s study, a large first-floor room with an enormous table in the window. The overflowing bookcases reached the ceiling; the desk was piled high with notes, letters and manuscripts; and even the parquet floor was cluttered with teetering columns of papers and pamphlets. The walls boasted portra
its – photographs or sketches – of Galton’s famous friends: men like Darwin, Thomas Henry Huxley and Herbert Spencer.

  ‘Lonsdale,’ said Galton, with a movement that dismissed the butler and reached for Lonsdale’s outstretched hand in one motion. ‘We shall talk here, because Mrs G is in the drawing room, having tea with her ladies.’

  Lonsdale sat and glanced around. On a table near his elbow were sheets of paper covered with curious diagrams, comprising arches in-filled with complex patterns. Galton saw him looking at them and came to sit next to him.

  ‘Those are fingerprints,’ he explained. ‘Well, thumbprints to be precise.’

  ‘Really,’ said Lonsdale, trying to think of an intelligent response to something so manifestly peculiar. ‘What are they for?’

  ‘They will be the most powerful weapon the police have ever possessed,’ declared Galton. ‘Sir William Herschel has been collecting these in Bengal for almost two decades, and he has thousands of them. They do not change with age, and they are unique to an individual – so if you pick up that glass and leave your fingerprints behind, they’ll prove you touched it just as surely as if you wrote your name.’

  ‘But they all look the same,’ said Lonsdale, studying the sheets.

  ‘Not to the trained eye,’ said Galton grandly. ‘There are arches, loops, whorls and compounds, as well as an almost endless possibility of differences, with circles, spirals, ellipses, plaits and twists – each one different to any other. There are no external bodily characteristics comparable to these markings, Lonsdale. The limbs and body alter in the course of growth and decay. The colour, quantity and quality of hair, the number of teeth, even eye colour, change. There is no persistence in any visible parts of the body, except these minute ridges.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of this before,’ said Lonsdale. ‘How do you collect them?’

  ‘A light coating of ink on the thumb,’ replied Galton. ‘Then this is pressed on a piece of paper. I aim to index them, so they can be consulted and used to catch malefactors. But you didn’t come here to discuss my detective work, fascinating though it is. You came to look at African grasses.’