Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  In your letter, you asked about certain specifics of William’s death. I shall provide you with a detailed account when we meet, although I can answer two of your questions briefly here.

  First, I can tell you few details about my son’s recent activities. He completed his degree at Oxford last June, then returned home for the summer. I had expected him to follow me into law, and with the foolish indulgence of a doting parent, allowed him a summer of idleness and leisure. Thus, imagine my surprise when, in September, he announced an intention to accept a post as a pre-doctoral researcher in London, and that he would be moving there directly. I was naturally concerned by the haste with which he jumped to an alternative career to the one I had envisioned, and my concerns grew when he declined to provide me with details. My insistence appears to have driven a wedge between us; nothing of the kind had ever entered our relationship before.

  From that time, we grew more distant. I was not inclined to visit him without an invitation, which I never received. The mystery of my son’s altered character was also of interest to Inspector Peloubet, the officer in charge of the investigation into his death.

  Your second query related to the manner of William’s death. I sent Dr Quayle, the family’s physician throughout the entire twenty-two years of my son’s life, to make such examination as would be permitted by the French authorities. He reported that my son was found lying next to a railway track, the top of his head cut off. The French authorities concluded that a train ran over his head, his body being flung to one side by the impact.

  This raises several questions. Would not the wheels of a train crush a head, rather than slice off the top? How could William jump or fall from a train, yet land with his head on the track? Does this not indicate that my son’s head was mutilated by other means, and his body placed near the tracks as if by ‘accident’? Moreover, if one were to fall from a moving train, would there not be other injuries? No such injuries were observed by Dr Quayle.

  Now I come to the most horrifying element of the tale: one section of my son’s brain had been removed. The French authorities believe this to be consistent with injuries caused by the train. Dr Quayle disagreed, and is of the opinion that someone killed William, cut off the top of his head with a long, sharp knife to remove part of his brain, and left him on a railway track to disguise the fact.

  I hope these facts will convince, rather than dissuade you from exploring the matter further. I enclose a family photograph of William, taken in happier times, in the hope that you will see the hopeful promise in his sweet face and feel my concerns about his death should also become your own.

  I wish to express my fervent thanks for your offer of help.

  I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

  Edward St John Willoughby

  The photograph had been cut from a larger picture, and showed a youth of twenty or so, with light hair and a smooth face. There was indeed something hopeful and endearing about the youthful features, and Willoughby Senior was right in that his son did truly make a jump from faceless victim to a person in Lonsdale’s eyes.

  Lonsdale returned to the letter and read it again, and then a third time. By the time the train rattled into Brookwood, he was beside himself, not just with anticipation of answers about to come, but also with a resolve to see justice for William.

  He alighted on a platform at a pretty place, with painted pots bursting with spring flowers and a cluster of attractive little brown and white cottages where the stationmaster and his staff lived. After the clanking, hissing train had gone, Lonsdale stood for a moment to savour the peace and collect himself. A pheasant issued its croaking call, and Lonsdale could see it strutting around a field, resplendent in its russet-bronze feathers.

  He went outside and was pleased to find a trap waiting for him. The driver opened the door for him, then climbed into his own seat, and encouraged the horse to a lively pace. Within minutes, after little more than a mile, the driver drew up outside a nondescript tavern.

  Lonsdale stepped into the main taproom to find two workmen standing at a long bar, talking to someone on the other side of a door behind it. As Lonsdale approached, he realized that they were addressing the publican, who was heating mutton chops for their midday meal. There had been a time when it had been common for workmen to bring in a cut of meat in a cabbage leaf for the publican to cook, in return for the men buying a quart of porter or four-ale. Lonsdale felt a momentary sadness that such a pleasant custom was disappearing.

  ‘Harry,’ called one of the men at the bar. ‘You’ve a gentleman out here.’

  The publican stepped into the doorframe and looked enquiringly at Lonsdale, who said he was looking for Edward Willoughby.

  ‘You’ll be wanting the saloon bar, then,’ said Harry. ‘Take the staircase to the first floor, go down the hall, and it’ll be on your right.’

  Lonsdale followed his instructions, and entered a room with attractive dark wood walls, plush carpeting, and two comfortable leather chairs, one of which was occupied by a tall man, impeccably dressed. His hair was neither long nor short, and his sideboards and thin moustache were neatly trimmed. He had a pleasant but unremarkable face. He rose as Lonsdale entered.

  ‘Thank you for coming.’ He extended his hand. ‘Francis Willoughby.’

  ‘You seem familiar,’ said Lonsdale, frowning.

  Willoughby smiled. ‘Yes – you might not remember, but we met a year ago at the Oxford and Cambridge Club.’

  Lonsdale had the sense that they had met more recently than twelve months before, yet poor Francis was so undistinguished that Lonsdale knew he might have passed him a dozen times in the street and not noticed. Then something occurred to him. ‘Francis Willoughby? My appointment was with Edward Willoughby.’

  ‘He’s my father. Please take a seat – I’ll explain everything.’

  With a knock, the landlord entered with two glasses of beer and a tray of food. Lonsdale wondered if he had been waiting outside, listening.

  ‘Well?’ asked Lonsdale when Harry had gone. He did not touch the proffered meal or drinks, and had the sinking sense that answers that had seemed so near his grasp were about to be snatched away.

  ‘My father is not a well man,’ began Willoughby. ‘He has a weak heart, and my brother’s death has been a terrible shock. Those of us who care about him decided that it would be best if I met you in his place, to prevent him from becoming overexcited.’

  ‘Surely that should be his decision – not yours?’ said Lonsdale.

  Willoughby gave a tight smile. ‘I’m a doctor, Mr Lonsdale, and I consulted both my father’s regular physician – Dr Quayle – and the heart specialist who treats him. It was a decision made by all of us in his best interests.’

  ‘Your father agreed to this?’

  ‘He doesn’t know,’ said Willoughby, gently apologetic. ‘When you fail to arrive, he’ll assume you’ve been delayed or have decided against listening to the ramblings of an old man broken by grief. He’ll go home, where I shall continue my efforts to help him let poor William go.’

  Lonsdale looked around him. ‘So this isn’t The Volunteer? The man in the trap outside the station effectively kidnapped me to bring me here, while your father waits elsewhere?’ He did not try to conceal his frustration.

  ‘Please forgive the dramatics, but I hope you can appreciate that I won’t endanger my father’s health,’ said Willoughby politely but firmly. ‘It might be a story to you, but it’s my father’s future at stake.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Lonsdale, trying to be as agreeable as possible, since he was not going to see the man’s father regardless. ‘But I have reason to believe his concerns about your brother are justified. Certain injuries …’

  ‘Then share your suppositions with me, and I will try to answer any questions you have.’

  Lonsdale disliked the situation he was in and was full of suspicion. ‘How do I know you are who you claim to be? Your father’s letters – both to me and The Times – said that Willi
am was his only son. He did not mention you.’

  Willoughby sighed sadly that Lonsdale should doubt him. ‘I can show you documents bearing my name, I suppose. And I have a family photograph …’

  He removed it from his wallet, much folded and fingered, showing two men sitting side by side. Lonsdale recognized them at once: one was William, the other the man who sat opposite.

  Lonsdale handed it back. ‘So why did your father say William was his only son?’

  ‘He and I had a falling out some years ago,’ said Willoughby, re-folding the photograph and putting it away. ‘It was what one might call a mutual disinheritance. My recent re-entry into his life was brought about by the death of my brother – my half-brother, actually.’

  ‘So you and he are reconciled?’

  Willoughby grimaced. ‘Let us say we are working to that end. Unfortunately, the hurt we inflicted on each other will take time to mend. But I love him and will do all I can to comfort and protect him.’

  ‘I see.’ Lonsdale was uncomfortable hearing such intimate details. It felt like the prurient prying that Milner feared reporters would soon have to undertake for their stories.

  ‘The cause of our disagreement was his shameful treatment of my mother,’ Willoughby went on. ‘They had been married for more than twenty years when he divorced her for a younger woman – William’s mother. He hurt her and ruined her reputation, simply for selfishness. William was born seven weeks later.’

  ‘Hmm,’ mumbled Lonsdale, beginning to be embarrassed by the confidences.

  ‘I was seventeen at the time,’ Willoughby went on, oblivious. ‘And I sided with my mother – the innocent party. But although my disgust at my father and my dislike of his new wife intensified, I was fond of my new half-brother. When my mother died, I washed my hands of my father and his woman, but remained in touch with William. Then, when William went up to Oxford, away from my stepmother’s poisonous interference, he and I were able to become friends.’

  ‘Your father didn’t know?’

  Willoughby shook his head. ‘William and I both decided it would be easier for all concerned if he didn’t. I had no wish for William to lose his father, as I had done. However, in the last four years of his life, I knew William better than his parents did.’

  Lonsdale took a sip of beer. ‘Your father mentioned a falling off of his relationship with his son. Was that why?’

  William smiled. ‘Of course not. What happened was that Oxford turned William from a cosseted, smothered boy into a man. He grew up, Mr Lonsdale – outgrew the need to tell his papa every little thing. I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Is his mother still alive?’

  An expression of pain crossed Willoughby’s face. ‘She decided against spending her life nursing an elderly husband, and left for greener pastures when William went to Oxford.’

  Lonsdale wanted to ask his questions and leave. The Willoughby family troubles were not relevant to how William had died in France. He eased the discussion to more practical matters. ‘How did you know your father planned to meet me?’

  ‘He mentioned it to Dr Quayle, who told me.’

  ‘Are you familiar with your father’s investigation into William’s death? That he believes William was followed to France and murdered?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but there’s no evidence to support his claims.’

  ‘On the contrary – he has the evidence of Dr Quayle, who travelled to France at his request and examined your brother’s body.’

  ‘Dr Quayle did not go to France alone. Do you think I would sit back and do nothing if I thought someone had deliberately hurt William? I went with him, and I saw the same things that he did.’

  ‘Which was that William’s cerebrum had been removed?’

  Willoughby made an impatient sound at the back of his throat. ‘That did not happen. First, William’s poor head was far too badly damaged to allow any such assessment to be made. And second, Dr Quayle would never have reported such a ghoulish detail to my father. I can only assume that this has come about due to the strain. Hearing it makes me wonder if he’s lucid enough to understand what Dr Quayle said at all.’

  ‘So Dr Quayle said nothing about a knife being used on William?’

  ‘The only knives involved were the scalpels employed by the pathologist at the mortuary,’ said Willoughby firmly. ‘The top of William’s head was severed, and parts of his brain were missing, but to say it had been surgically removed … it is a nonsense!’

  Lonsdale was not sure what to think. ‘There have been other cases of missing cerebra recently …’

  Willoughby initially looked sceptical, but seeing how serious Lonsdale was, his face showed actual relief. ‘Thank God! That explains where my father got the idea. I was afraid it might have derived from some sickness of his own mind. He must have read about it in one of the less responsible papers, and thought that as William’s brain was also damaged …’

  Lonsdale shook his head. ‘That’s impossible, because several of us at The Pall Mall Gazette are the only ones other than the police who are aware of the details of those cases.’

  ‘Then all I can imagine is that my father misunderstood what Dr Quayle told him. Perhaps Dr Quayle indicated that part of the brain was gone, and my father made the leap to assuming that meant it had been taken.’

  Lonsdale supposed that made sense, and with bitter frustration saw answers slipping further away. And yet the picture of William’s youthful face drove him to ask his last questions.

  ‘Was William’s death an accident then?’

  ‘It was not suicide. He had no reason to terminate his life. It was, I believe, a tragic accident. And let me add that my father’s criticisms of the French police are unreasonable. They assessed the situation carefully and minutely, and I believe their conclusions: that William was killed by a train, his body being thrown aside by the impact.’

  ‘Is it possible to fall from one moving train, be hit by another, and sustain no injuries other than to a head?’

  ‘But William did suffer other injuries. Dr Quayle and I found significant bruising to his chest, legs, and back.’

  ‘So what do you think happened?’

  Willoughby looked away; the subject was painful. ‘That William fell out of the train because he leaned on an insecurely fastened door, that he suffered serious bruising in that fall, that perhaps he staggered back to the tracks before passing out with his head on or next to the tracks, and that he was killed when another train hit his head as it passed later. And that, Mr Lonsdale, is a much more plausible explanation than my father’s.’

  ‘I guess it is,’ acknowledged Lonsdale reluctantly.

  ‘Are you free to share with me any of the details of these other cases that you thought my father might know about?’ asked Willoughby. ‘I’m just wondering if I might be able to see a connection.’

  And because he did not want his journey to Brookwood to have been a total waste of time – and as Willoughby was a medical man – Lonsdale told him about the other deaths he had been investigating. Willoughby was a good listener, and Lonsdale outlined every detail of the cases, including his suspicions that incidents in Holborn, Peckham and Chiswick might also be related.

  ‘I see now why my father’s letter brought you running,’ said Willoughby when he had finished. ‘But to answer your earlier question, I have no idea why anyone should want to steal a fellow’s cerebrum. However, I seriously doubt the business has anything to do with the medical profession. You would do better to look among the criminal fraternity for your culprits.’

  ‘Probably,’ admitted Lonsdale. ‘Just one more question: do you know what “research post” William took in London?’

  Again, Willoughby winced. ‘None, as far as I know. I strongly suspect he was in the city enjoying its delights, and the claim of employment was to avoid our father’s censure. He deplores idleness.’

  The two men sat in silence. After several moments, Lonsdale stood to leave. ‘Thank you for your c
andour. My condolences on the loss of your brother.’

  The trap was waiting, so he climbed in and nodded to the driver to take him back to the station. Willoughby watched him go and, had Lonsdale glanced back, he would have seen the mask of poised suffering slip to reveal something else altogether.

  On Sunday night, Anne lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, but all she could think about was Lonsdale, and the time they had spent at the Physic Garden. He had not returned from Surrey early enough to join Jack, Emelia and her on Saturday, but after church on Sunday the four of them dined together and had a lovely afternoon. She and Lonsdale were officially acting as chaperones for the betrothed couple, but she remembered nothing at all of what they had said or done. All she remembered was Alec – his slightly awry hair, his laughing eyes, and his bright, intelligent conversation.

  They had sauntered lazily around the garden and, at one point, when Jack and Emelia had followed a bend in the path before she and Lonsdale reached it, he had taken her hand and held it gently. She remembered the warmth of his hand, and the light, affectionate squeeze he had given hers before he had let go. Then, when he had helped her to the carriage – at the end of the most glorious evening she could remember – he had turned towards her. Their lips had been scant inches apart, and she had desperately wanted to kiss him. Smiling, she slipped into a contented slumber.

  TEN

  Lonsdale arrived so early at Northumberland Street on Monday morning that he was there before anyone else. Eager to speak to Stead, and knowing the assistant editor crossed the Hungerford Bridge each day from his house at Wimbledon Common, Lonsdale went to meet him. He headed towards a cavern that led to Villiers Street under the South Eastern Railway Terminus – lit by a single lamp at each end, and wet with mineral-rich moisture dripping from stalactites in between. Just as he was entering it, Stead appeared, trudging with a slouching step and bent shoulders, and a large leather satchel swinging from his right hand. Next to him was Milner.