Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Wonder of wonders,’ said Stead. ‘First Milner calls at my house at six. Now you meet me before seven.’

  Without waiting to hear what had drawn Milner – never an early riser – from his bed at such an hour, Lonsdale told them both about his foray to Surrey. Stead barely listened.

  ‘I appreciate you have the bit between your teeth with this cerebrum business, Lonsdale, but it will have to wait, I’m afraid. All our attention must focus on the tragic events of Saturday.’

  ‘What events?’ asked Lonsdale.

  But they had reached the office, and Stead sprang up the stairs without answering. Lonsdale looked at Milner for an explanation.

  ‘On Saturday, Lord Frederick Cavendish, the new Chief Secretary for Ireland, arrived in Dublin,’ Milner explained. ‘That evening, he and Under-Secretary Burke were walking in Phoenix Park when they were set upon by four men armed with knives and murdered within sight of the Viceregal Lodge.’

  ‘Members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood?’ asked Lonsdale, hating the thought of what such an outrage would mean for the continued troubles in Ireland.

  ‘Probably, although no one has yet claimed responsibility. Because yesterday was Sunday, almost nothing’s known, but the public will soon be clamouring for information, and we’ll be expected to provide it. Morley has already set up a meeting with Gladstone, his close personal friend. We’d better go upstairs.’

  In all his time at The PMG, Lonsdale had never seen everyone so intent on a single story. Milner was sent to Dublin, and every other member of staff was allocated a different aspect of the crime. Nothing else seemed to matter.

  Thus it was not until Wednesday, when the furious activity had abated, that Lonsdale had time to return to the archive. The first thing he did was to address an issue that had been niggling at the back of his mind ever since he had boarded the train from Brookwood. Willoughby Senior claiming that William’s brain had been taken was just too much of a coincidence at a time when similar incidents were occurring, and Willoughby’s explanation for the ‘confusion’, although possible, simply did not feel right. Lonsdale suspected that a second attempt to see the father would be no more successful than the first, so he decided to approach Dr Quayle – to ask for a detailed account about William’s body and exactly what he had told Willoughby Senior.

  It took a while for Lonsdale to compose the missive, as he needed to mention his correspondence with the father and his meeting with the son, without betraying his doubts about what the younger Willoughby had told him. But at last it was done, and he took it upstairs to be posted, before returning to the drudgery in the archive.

  He had been working steadily for several hours when Hulda arrived with a visitor. She looked tired after the frenzy of the Phoenix Park murders, but her eyes had not lost their customary gleam. Lonsdale was somewhat startled to see Jamie in her wake. The boy’s once-fine clothes were even more rumpled and stained, but he was grinning in triumph.

  ‘I found what you asked,’ he said proudly, ‘and I’m here to make me report.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Lonsdale, indicating the archive’s only other chair. ‘Take a seat and tell us what you’ve discovered.’

  ‘No,’ said Jamie, turning to Hulda with a clumsy but sincere bow. ‘Ladies sits. Gentlemen stands.’ Hiding her amusement, Hulda inclined her head in gracious thanks and perched on the edge of the seat.

  ‘Are you hungry, Jamie?’ Lonsdale asked.

  ‘She bought me a pie, didn’t she?’ he said, nodding toward Hulda. ‘She ain’t nearly so stiff as she looks.’

  ‘You won’t get another if you don’t watch your tongue,’ Hulda snapped brusquely, although a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘Right,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Frederick Kempster and Edmund Corlett. What have you learned?’

  ‘Neither had any family or friends,’ Jamie replied, ‘except each other. They shared rooms, and kept to themselves. Their neighbour says they was dolly boys.’

  ‘Homosexuals,’ translated Lonsdale for Hulda’s benefit. ‘And probably ostracized by their families so, like Donovan, they were alone.’

  Jamie nodded. ‘No one went to their funerals, and no one collected their belongings – those are still at the police station. I asked to see them, but the peelers wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘Right,’ said Lonsdale, thinking the boy had some gall to try.

  ‘No one could say how the fire started,’ Jamie continued. ‘But I think it was deliberate, like the one that did for Donovan. I gave a penny to the mortuary guard, and he let me see them. Neither had no head – it was like they’d been squashed right off.’

  ‘You inspected the bodies?’ asked Lonsdale, aghast.

  ‘I’m a thorough reporter, me,’ said Jamie with haughty pride. ‘But there’s more, old pal. While I was visiting me mates at the workhouse, they told me that he’s been seen again, doing his stuff.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘Iverson – the big man with the scar?’

  ‘No, the blacksmith-like feller. His appearance has changed because he shaved off his beard. But he’s got the same snake tattoo on one of those big old arms.’

  ‘What did he do, exactly?’

  ‘Me mate – Roger – he said Big Arms went off with a woman called Agnes over in Hackney after they’d been making eyes at each other all night. It’s been a week now, and she ain’t been seen since. I figure she thought she was catching herself sommat good, but got caught instead. And she’s as dead as me mates.’

  ‘Has her disappearance been reported to the police?’ asked Lonsdale.

  ‘Sure, but they said they couldn’t do nothing.’

  ‘And you’re absolutely certain?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘Big Arms is the same man we talked about earlier?’

  Jamie nodded firmly. ‘Roger said they all calls him Captain, because he has the same name as the pirate.’

  ‘What pirate?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘Drake? Bluebeard?’

  ‘No, the one from Bristol. Morgan. Henry Morgan. That’s Big Arms’ name.’ Jamie grinned, delighted with his success. ‘So now I’m ready for the next job. Chiswick, you said.’

  Lonsdale explained what he wanted, and urged Jamie to be careful. He then gave him two shillings, one for the job just completed and one for the next. Jamie tossed them in the air, caught them, and raced up the stairs to begin at once. Hulda regarded Lonsdale sceptically.

  ‘He’s a child. Are you sure you should use him like this?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Lonsdale, ‘but from what he told us, I think he’ll be safer in Chiswick than anywhere frequented by Big Arms Morgan.’

  ‘So have you discovered anything yourself, or have you left it all to your helpmeet?’

  ‘I’ve found out that a milkman – John Poole – who’s due to attend court tomorrow, has disappeared. He’s accused of stealing canisters put out by other milkmen, and was supposed to report to the police each evening. He hasn’t for several days.’

  ‘You’re clutching at straws,’ said Hulda. ‘Maybe he just absconded.’

  ‘Well, it’s a minor charge, but if he runs away, he could end up behind bars. His barrister insists that he was keeping to the terms of his bond because he was so frightened of prison. He and the police are baffled. Have you found anything?’

  Hulda fumbled in her handbag and pulled out a newspaper. ‘I asked a friend in Brighton to keep an eye out for any murder or disappearance that might occur in the area after Bradwell went down there. Here is yesterday’s Brighton Herald.’

  The body of Teresa Godley, aged fourteen, was discovered yesterday after a fire at a beach arcade. She had gone missing a week ago after being released until trial following her arrest with her brother for stealing a gold chain and watch and two pounds from a man named Frank Wood. Her body was burned beyond recognition, but she was identified by the chain taken from Mr Wood.

  ‘Are you ready to investigate Bradwell now?’ Hulda asked.

  When Lonsdale arrived at Northumberland Str
eet on Thursday morning, he headed to the reporters’ room to collect Hulda, so they could investigate her contention that Bradwell’s ‘holiday’ was connected to the death of Teresa Godley. But before he had reached the top of the stairs, Stead called out. Lonsdale stuck his head into the assistant editor’s office, and saw him sitting on a stack of newspapers. His back was to the door, his feet were on the mantelpiece, and he was rhythmically beating the sides of his trousers with a long-handled clothes brush.

  ‘Ah, Lonsdale,’ he said, leaning back until his head was almost upside-down, and regarding the reporter in a most unorthodox fashion, ‘I understand you had plans with Hulda today, regarding poor Bradwell. It’s therefore with some pleasure that I destroy your nefarious intentions by telling you what I told her fifteen minutes ago: the two of you will be needed here all day, because Mr Morley, Milner and I shall be attending the funeral of Lord Frederick Cavendish.’

  Stead spun around, looked his reporter up and down, and held out the clothes brush. ‘You need this more than I do.’ He scratched his thick beard. ‘I’d like you to write a note on last night’s storm. There’s been damage throughout the south.’

  When Lonsdale reached the reporters’ office, the most serious storm appeared to be in Hulda’s face. She was furious, and Lonsdale could tell from the flushed, angry features of Voules that he had experienced the sharpness of her tongue. He glanced at Lonsdale as he entered, and resumed reading the morning papers. Wisely, Cook had retreated to the furthest corner.

  ‘Stead can be most irritating,’ she said angrily. ‘Rather than investigating Bradwell, we’re forced to remain here. I should never have told him what we were planning.’

  ‘A mistake I wouldn’t have expected from you,’ said Cook, rashly joining the discussion.

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ she hissed. ‘All you do is gallivant around speculating about assassination. But just exactly what have you learned about the Phoenix Park murders, eh?’

  ‘Not much,’ agreed Cook, in a manner that indicated he was not going to give her the satisfaction of an argument. ‘It’ll be a long investigation.’

  ‘But no more difficult than ours,’ said Hulda grumpily. ‘And at least the Phoenix Park murders don’t have Stead slowing down the investigation.’

  Lonsdale arrived home at Cleveland Square that evening to find Jack just bidding farewell to Emelia and Anne, who had joined him for late-afternoon tea. Anne’s face lit up when she saw Lonsdale, which was not lost on Jack, who gave his brother a meaningful wink. Emelia saw the wink, but did not understand it, and looked from one to the other in confusion. ‘Surely you don’t have to go just yet?’ asked Lonsdale, sorry that he had taken a leisurely walk through the parks instead of the more direct route. ‘Do you have plans for this evening?’

  ‘We’re expected home – Mother and Father are hosting a dinner party,’ said Anne. ‘We need time to dress.’

  ‘And we’re dining at the United Service Club tonight, Alec,’ Jack added. ‘We were invited by Taylor, who is in London on leave. He’s moved up the ranks since he and I were young together, and you can’t have seen him for years.’

  Lonsdale sighed ungraciously.

  ‘It’s gratifying to see you disappointed to miss my company, Alexander,’ said Emelia blithely. ‘I’ve been labouring under the impression that you didn’t like me, but now I see I was wrong.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lonsdale hesitantly, not sure how to respond.

  ‘What would you like to do this coming Sunday?’ asked Anne, addressing Jack, but glancing at Lonsdale. ‘A picnic in Greenwich Park?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Emelia with a shudder. ‘There would be too many ants.’

  ‘Hampton Court might be nice,’ suggested Lonsdale, speaking to Anne.

  ‘Rather than making a major outing of it, we could dine here,’ Jack said. ‘And then we could stroll to Hyde Park to watch the boating. The Serpentine is famous for its model yachts.’

  ‘That sounds dull,’ said Emelia. ‘Toy boats are for children.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Lonsdale, thinking about Donovan’s love of watching them during his half-days off. Suddenly, Jack’s idea seemed very attractive. ‘It might be interesting.’

  ‘I suppose Annie and I can find something to amuse ourselves while you grown men play,’ said Emelia sulkily.

  ‘Don’t worry, Em, I’m certain we’ll all have an enjoyable time,’ said Anne, and smiled happily.

  Lonsdale had not been home long when he received a message from Stead. Due to public and legal pressures, it had recently been decided that the Hampstead Smallpox Hospital would cease admitting smallpox patients and would concentrate instead on treating scarlet fever and diphtheria. Stead wanted Lonsdale to ascertain whether this change was due to the wealthy residents of Hampstead using their political influence to override public health concerns. Stead also had a new assignment for Hulda, and Lonsdale was just as glad he would not be there when she found out that her goal of looking into Bradwell had been delayed again.

  When Lonsdale awoke on Friday morning, he felt as though he had not slept at all. For much of the night, he had been plagued by unsettling dreams, and, although he could not remember them, he still had a lingering sense of unease. But he felt considerably better after three cups of tea and a large plate of bacon and coddled eggs, and, despite a light rain, he was soon walking to the Midland Railway Station to take the 10.05 a.m. to Hampstead.

  Late that afternoon, having interviewed administrators at the hospital as well as the locals who were among its greatest adversaries, Lonsdale took the train back to London. He dozed fitfully throughout the journey, sleep alternating with wondering if a response had arrived from Dr Quayle. Reaching the Midland Station, he began to move along the platform with a wave of humanity from another train that had arrived simultaneously. Someone behind bumped him hard with a large bag, and he turned his head around in annoyance.

  A glimpse of a figure further back, however, drove all other thoughts from his mind. Iverson was not wearing his police uniform, but a dirty black jacket of the kind favoured by dockers. His eyes met Lonsdale’s. Turning quickly, Lonsdale knocked into a hurrying businessman. By the time he looked up again, Iverson had gone.

  Once outside the station, Lonsdale decided that rather than heading to Northumberland Street, he would go straight home, in the hope of finding Anne and Emelia there again. He was disappointed to discover the house empty except for the servants. He retired early to his rooms and sat near a fire, reading and dozing.

  He woke Saturday morning pleasantly refreshed and found Jack had already left. Lonsdale wandered down to the drawing room, where he read The Morning Post and The Daily Telegraph. He was just perusing more speculation about the Phoenix Park killings when Dillon, the butler, opened the door to admit Hulda.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Hulda without preamble. ‘You didn’t come to work yesterday, and there was no sign of you today. Are you ill?’

  Lonsdale poured her some tea. ‘It’s good to know you care, Friederichs.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you in the middle of our investigation,’ she said stiffly. ‘Have you made any progress, or have you just been lounging about?’

  He told her about his dull day in Hampstead, finishing with, ‘but I saw Iverson at the Midland Railway Terminus, although he disappeared before I could reach him.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘He seems to be everywhere. I have news also: Peters sent a message yesterday saying that O’Connor has apparently absconded with an unspecified sum of money.’

  ‘O’Connor the mortuary assistant? Perhaps we should see what Bradwell can tell us about it. He must be back from Brighton by now.’

  ‘Great minds, Lonsdale. I’ve heard that he is back, and I want to know if he had a role in the murder of Teresa Godley. Shall we go?’

  They arrived at the mortuary to find its windows boarded over with fresh wood and its door secured with a strong, new lock.

  ‘Have the M
etropolitan Police finally provided sufficient funds for Bradwell to make his building safe?’ asked Hulda, rattling the door. ‘He will be pleased! But quick – stop that hansom before it gets away. He’s not here, so we need to locate him at the hospital.’

  St Bartholomew’s Hospital was a substantial complex, comprising a number of large brick and stone edifices and a mass of outbuildings. Lonsdale and Hulda were directed on a complicated route along corridors, across patches of scrubby grass, and up and down stairs. Hulda was beginning to become frustrated when they finally found the surgical section, with its brightly lit operating theatres. Bradwell, just leaving a recovery room, was not pleased to see them.

  ‘How may I help you?’ he asked stiffly, leading them into a grimy corridor away from his colleagues. ‘Much as meeting you is a pleasure, Miss Friederichs, I am busy today.’

  Lonsdale noticed that his face was paler than it had been and his hands were unsteady – his sojourn in Brighton had evidently not been the restorative jaunt he had hoped.

  ‘We wanted to ask you about O’Connor,’ said Hulda. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Bradwell. ‘I haven’t been to the mortuary in days, so I can’t answer questions about what the staff do without me. Is there anything else? I have patients waiting.’

  ‘But you must know,’ insisted Hulda. ‘You worked with him for … how long was it?’

  Bradwell shook his head quickly, glanced up and down the hall, and then looked her squarely in the eyes. ‘Please, Miss Friederichs, I’d love to help you, but I’ve an operation to perform in ten minutes. Now, if you will—’

  ‘Have the police asked you about O’Connor’s disappearance?’ persisted Hulda.

  ‘Of course, but I’ll tell you what I told them: I haven’t seen him in days. I’ve been in Brighton, you know, with my family.’

  ‘So what did you do there?’ asked Hulda. ‘Meet any local young girls?’

  Bradwell blinked. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘One was murdered,’ said Hulda. ‘Teresa Godley.’

  Bradwell raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, I read about it in the newspapers.’