Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘How was I supposed to know that, for Heaven’s sake?’ Lonsdale asked, although he felt mildly ashamed of his neglect.

  ‘These are two ladies, not the frontier women you met in Africa. Or Hulda Friederichs, for that matter, who, if you don’t watch out, will have you riding bicycles and chaining yourself to railings in favour of women’s votes.’

  ‘What’s wrong with letting women vote? They do comprise half the population.’

  ‘A year ago, I would have agreed,’ said Jack. ‘But do you really want the likes of Emelia deciding the future of our country? She doesn’t read the newspapers, and has no idea what’s happening in the world.’

  ‘I’m sure the same is true of a lot of men, but they’re allowed to do it. Besides, some women are extremely well informed. Look at Friederichs, who knows more about British politics than virtually any man I know – including you. And Anne is no dullard.’

  ‘No, she’s not.’ Jack gave Lonsdale a playful jab in the ribs. ‘Pretty girl, Anne. Good family, too. You could do a lot worse than her.’

  Lonsdale was not about to confess his regard for her, because he knew he’d never hear the end of it. He changed the subject back to Emelia.

  ‘If you think Emelia can’t be trusted to vote, why in God’s name are you marrying her?’ There. It was out, and there was no turning back. Lonsdale realized he was holding his breath.

  ‘A man needs a woman, and she has everything I require,’ said Jack simply. ‘And I love her.’

  Lonsdale was spared from responding, as several penny-sized spots appeared on the path and Emelia screeched her horror.

  ‘Rain!’ she shrieked, as if it were acid dropping from the sky rather than water.

  ‘Dash it all!’ exclaimed Jack. ‘I was hoping to reach home first. Can we make it to those trees, do you think?’

  They trotted across the grass to a small copse, considerably hampered by Anne’s uncontrollable giggles. The sky was now a solid mass of grey, and the rain that fell was the kind of downpour that might set in for the rest of the day. Lonsdale offered to fetch a hansom, more to escape Emelia’s grumbles than from any sense of chivalry.

  ‘I’ll bring it down Carriage Drive, so you can just come over when you see me arrive.’

  ‘Don’t forget us then,’ said Anne, as the drips came through the branches onto her hair.

  Lonsdale began to hurry across the grass to where there were always hansoms for hire. Other strollers were thinking along identical lines, but he was faster than most, as ladies in fashionable sheath and tie-back dresses moved slowly.

  He reached his destination ahead of the crowds and hailed a carriage. But they had gone no more than a hundred yards when he heard a loud crack. The horse screamed at the same time that the carriage lurched forward, throwing Lonsdale headfirst against its interior wall. His mind reeling, all he could think was that someone was shooting at him.

  ELEVEN

  ‘You all right, mister?’ the driver asked. Lonsdale tried to clear his wits. ‘The axle snapped when we went over a pothole. Sorry if you was thrown about. If it makes you feel any better, the underside of me carriage looks worse than you do.’

  Lonsdale climbed out and inspected the damage. Rain drummed on the umbrellas of the people who clustered around watching. A policeman hurried over and asked him to wait while he helped the driver to disengage the horses. Several people asked if they could help, and one gentleman invited Lonsdale to share his umbrella.

  Eventually, after shuffling impatiently while the policeman made ponderous notes about the accident in his pocket book, Lonsdale told him that he had to go. Then it took a while for him to find a replacement carriage. He directed the driver to the trees under which Jack and the sisters had sheltered, but they were no longer there.

  Grimly, knowing he was in for lectures from both Jack and Emelia, he told the driver to take him home. When he reached Cleveland Square, Dillon the butler informed him that the others had not returned. For a reason he couldn’t put his finger on, Lonsdale began to feel uneasy.

  Using the same cab, he gave the driver the Humbages’ address – Gordon Square in Bloomsbury – and told him to hurry. Progress was agonizingly slow, as the traffic was heavy because of the rain. After what felt like an age, Lonsdale was deposited at the door of the handsome, five-storey affair with window boxes, yellow shutters, and twin marble columns leading to a front door. He flung a handful of coins at the driver, and ran up the steps. His knock was answered by a maid, who gasped as he thrust past her into the hall.

  ‘Are Jack and Anne here?’ he demanded, darting down the corridor and looking through open doors as he went. In one, an elderly woman regarded him with obvious interest. ‘And Emelia?’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘Alexander!’ came Emelia’s shocked voice from behind him. ‘Whatever’s the matter with you? You’re frightening our grandmother.’

  He turned to see Emelia and Anne coming down the stairs, from where they had evidently been changing into dry clothes. He sighed in relief.

  ‘Thank goodness you’re safe,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure where you’d gone.’

  ‘Where we’d gone?’ demanded Emelia, glaring at him. ‘You were gone for an age, but our neighbour, Sir Henry Hartley, saw us and offered us a ride in his own carriage. Jack insisted that we accept.’

  ‘So where’s Jack?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘Did you leave him behind?’

  ‘Who might you be, sir?’ interrupted an imperious voice from the top of the stairs. ‘Anne? Emelia? Who is this ill-dressed fellow? What is the meaning of this unseemly commotion on the Lord’s Day?’

  ‘It’s Jack’s brother, Father,’ said Emelia, giving Lonsdale a warning look. ‘Here to ensure we arrived home safely.’

  ‘Is he now?’ asked Sir Gervais, in a voice that dripped hostility. He was a tall man, with stern features, vast mutton-chop whiskers, and a manner that indicated he was used to having his own way. He wore a silk smoking jacket and had The Pilgrim’s Progress tucked under his arm, a tome that Lonsdale considered one of the dullest ever written. Evidently, Sir Gervais had been reading it aloud to his household, as a bevy of servants emerged to stand at his heels.

  With them was a large, squat woman whom Lonsdale took to be the lady of the house. Lady Humbage wore a heavy, uncomfortable outfit that would not have improved her enjoyment of the afternoon, as it looked hot, stiff and restrictive. No wonder Emelia was such an ignoramus, thought Lonsdale: her parents had turned literature and education into an ordeal. He wondered how Anne had survived.

  ‘He looks drunk to me,’ said Lady Humbage, coming to take the arm of the old lady, who had emerged from her room to watch. ‘Go and sit down, Mother.’

  ‘Are you drunk, sir?’ asked Sir Gervais, reverently placing the Bunyan on a small table before descending the stairs with a majesty of which the Old Queen would have been proud.

  ‘He’s always like this,’ said Emelia petulantly. ‘And, this afternoon, he abandoned Annie to the attentions of crude men on the banks of the Serpentine and then ran off alone, leaving us without a carriage.’

  ‘He did what?’ exploded her father, glowering at Lonsdale as if he wished to thrash him there and then.

  ‘Em is teasing,’ said Anne, giving her sister a sharp glare. ‘We had a most pleasurable walk together, and then – with my blessing – Alec went to interview some men for a story he’s writing.’

  ‘You abandoned my daughter? And what do you mean, “for a story”?’ His voice oozed contempt.

  ‘Look at him,’ said Lady Humbage, before Lonsdale could defend himself. ‘His hair is uncombed and he’s dripping on the Persian rug.’

  ‘It’s raining,’ said the old lady tartly, speaking in a voice that was unexpectedly strong. ‘Of course he’s dishevelled. But he’s not drunk. I know a drunk when I see one.’ She smiled enigmatically, leaving Lonsdale to wonder whether the family’s roots were as respectable as Emelia and her stiff, pompous parents would have everyone believe.

 
; ‘You’re right, Grandmother – he isn’t drunk,’ said Emelia, trying to bundle Lonsdale towards the door. ‘But he is leaving.’

  ‘Stay,’ countered the old lady, extending Lonsdale a warm smile and holding out a gnarled hand. ‘A visitor kind enough to brave a wet Sunday must not be allowed to escape so easily.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Anne quickly. ‘He should stay.’

  ‘He’s busy,’ said Emelia. ‘He has work to do.’

  ‘On the Sabbath?’ asked Sir Gervais coldly. ‘The day the Lord instructed us to rest? What kind of heathen are you, man?’

  ‘No kind, indeed, sir,’ responded Lonsdale shortly. ‘As a matter of fact—’

  ‘Alec’s father is a rector,’ interrupted Anne, trying to salvage a degenerating situation.

  ‘Well, obviously,’ said the old lady dryly, ‘if he’s Jack’s brother.’ She chuckled softly.

  ‘A rector who failed to teach his son that cleanliness lies next to Godliness,’ intoned Sir Gervais. ‘It’s hard to believe he’s related to Jack.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Lady Humbage. ‘Breeding is important, and one can tell a good deal from families.’

  Emelia blanched, as she realized doubts were being cast on Jack because of her unwarranted hostility to Lonsdale. He felt a twinge of malicious satisfaction.

  ‘How can you account for your actions towards my daughter, and then for bursting in on us during our devotions?’ demanded Sir Gervais.

  Lonsdale adopted a pompous voice of his own, speaking loudly enough to ensure he would not be interrupted. ‘I regret the weather has made it difficult for me to appear my best. I have the utmost regard for your daughters, and I would never intentionally put them in the way of verbal unpleasantness or physical harm. My arrival here was based on concern for them and my brother, who left the park before I could bring them the transport I had secured.’

  ‘Don’t take that tone with me, sir,’ blustered Sir Gervais. ‘By God, if there weren’t ladies present—’

  ‘Oh, go and sit down, Gervais,’ ordered the old lady crossly. ‘You’ll give yourself a seizure. You, too, Agatha.’

  ‘Where’s Jack?’ Lonsdale asked of Anne.

  ‘Jack’s a charming fellow,’ said the old lady, before Anne could answer. ‘One brother a rector, another in the Royal Navy.’ She smiled at Lonsdale. ‘And now I meet the baby of the family.’

  ‘Alexander was in the Colonial Service,’ said Emelia, to repair any damage she might have caused. ‘Weren’t you?’ There was desperation in her eyes.

  Lonsdale nodded his head obediently. ‘Jack?’ he asked.

  ‘Walking home,’ replied Anne gently. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be wet, but a drenching will do him no harm.’

  ‘Stay for some rum punch,’ ordered the old lady. ‘I have a recipe that will put some colour back in your cheeks.’

  ‘Go back to the sitting room, Mother-in-law!’ snapped Sir Gervais unpleasantly. ‘He is not here to listen to the prattle of elderly women. Or to imbibe sinful substances.’

  ‘Pity,’ sighed the old lady, genuinely disappointed.

  ‘Perhaps another time,’ said Lonsdale gallantly.

  ‘Good day, sir,’ said Emelia’s father and, without another word, he turned and stalked back upstairs, his wife and servants in his wake.

  ‘Goodbye,’ called the old lady wistfully, as Lonsdale aimed for the door. ‘Do call again.’

  ‘Hopefully we’ll see each other soon,’ put in Anne.

  ‘I’m not pleased with your treatment of that antimacassar, Alexander,’ hissed Emelia, anger erupting again now her parents were no longer present.

  ‘What antimacassar?’ asked Lonsdale, bewildered by the sudden change of topics.

  ‘You obviously wiped your dirty hands on it,’ continued Emelia. ‘It was ruined, and it was one of a set that took me a month to make.’

  ‘It fell out under the trees while Jack was looking for his handkerchief to wipe spots of rain off Em’s face,’ said Anne, laughing at Lonsdale’s guilty look. ‘At first, we couldn’t imagine why he had such a filthy rag, but then she recognized the stitches.’

  ‘Jack said he had put it in his pocket because he thought he’d have a replacement made,’ said Emelia. ‘As if I wouldn’t notice the difference between my lacework and someone else’s! You men must think us stupid.’

  ‘He told you I’d ruined it?’ asked Lonsdale, thinking it unlike his brother to land him in trouble quite so shamelessly.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Emelia, scornfully. ‘When I demanded to know what had happened to it, he said he had found it on the mantelpiece and that one of the servants must have damaged it. But from the way he blustered, I knew he was protecting you. Now go. I don’t want Father to have second thoughts about what kind of family he’s letting me marry into.’

  Lonsdale walked down the steps to find the driver of the carriage still looking for coins in the mud.

  ‘You don’t know how much there was, do you?’ he asked unhappily. ‘Only I’m not sure I’ve got it all, see. People don’t usually lob money at me.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t,’ said Lonsdale. ‘I hope it was enough.’

  ‘It’ll suffice,’ said the driver smugly. ‘In fact, I’ll take you back to Bayswater for free if you like.’

  He had a final prod in the mud with the whip, and then they were off, travelling sedately along the tree-lined streets.

  Lonsdale rubbed his head. Was he mad, tearing all over London and making bad impressions on Jack’s intended in-laws? He decided he had better be careful, or it would be Jack he would have to worry about, not some crazed killer.

  When Lonsdale arrived home, he was surprised when the door was opened before he reached it – the servants were not usually so assiduous. He was even more surprised to see Hulda in the hall.

  ‘Your butler told me that you’d shot in and out again with no explanation,’ she said. ‘I was concerned.’

  ‘I went to see Emelia and Anne,’ said Lonsdale vaguely, and turned to Dillon. ‘Is Jack home?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  Lonsdale went to the drawing room. Hulda followed and sat opposite him.

  ‘Jack should be home by now. Where could he be?’

  ‘His club?’ suggested Hulda. ‘The place where men go to do things mere women are not permitted to witness?’

  Lonsdale ignored the barb. ‘Anne said he planned to come home.’

  ‘Well, he would say that, Lonsdale,’ said Hulda. ‘He’d hardly confess that he aimed to spend his evening drinking and playing cards. Why are you so worried? Has something happened?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Lonsdale, not sure how to explain the irrational fear that had been with him ever since he had come home to find the place empty.

  Hulda fumbled in her bag for an Esmonda cigar. ‘A hansom knocked me from my bicycle just after noon,’ she said quietly. ‘It would have run me over had I not rolled out of the way.’

  ‘Hulda!’ exclaimed Lonsdale, appalled to think he had been so engrossed in his own concerns that he had failed to notice her. He looked her over quickly, noting that her hands were scraped and that there was mud on her skirt. For a woman of her impeccable appearance, this was unusual indeed. ‘Are you hurt? Can I fetch you anything?’

  She shook her head, but her voice was unsteady. ‘I was on my way to a special Sunday archery session when the attack came. I’m damned if I’ll allow a maniac to interfere with something I enjoy, so I picked myself up and continued. I was a little alarmed, but once at the butts, I could protect myself by treating any comers to an arrow in the heart. After practice, I came here.’

  She seemed subdued, and he sensed she was still in shock.

  ‘Did you see the driver? Was it Iverson?’

  ‘No, but someone just as interesting.’ She blew out a large ring of smoke. ‘I believe it was the man who attacked us near the hospital – the one we think is named “Pauly”.’

  ‘But he didn’t harm you?’ he asked again, thinking that for H
ulda to admit to being ‘a little alarmed’ probably meant that she was terrified.

  ‘Just my pride. I had to submit to the indignity of being helped to my feet and fussed over by a group of men. But there is more important news.’

  ‘What could be more important?’ he asked uneasily.

  ‘I met Wheatley, The PMG’s business reporter, just before I was knocked over. He told me that the police had sent a note to Stead saying that a body had been found in Shepherd’s Bush.’

  Lonsdale waited while Hulda blew a stream of smoke towards the hearth.

  ‘It was Poole, your missing milkman,’ she said. ‘He was sans cerebrum.’

  While rain splattered against the window, Hulda and Lonsdale sat by the fire. The flames sent a comfortable orange glow around the room, and snapped and popped in a way that always made Lonsdale think of toasting teacakes when he was a child. He might have enjoyed sitting there, talking quietly while the storm fussed outside, were they not discussing a series of brutal murders, and had he not been worried about Jack.

  ‘Poole wasn’t killed where he was found – in an alley – because there wasn’t enough blood, apparently,’ said Hulda, sipping her tea. ‘And because a number of people saw the corpse and that its cerebrum was missing, the police have not tried to conceal it.’

  ‘Leaving him in an alley,’ said Lonsdale. ‘The killer is getting audacious.’

  ‘And perhaps selective. Greaves’s and Walker’s cerebra were left intact when they were killed in Regent’s Park, but Donovan and Yeats, the music-hall entertainer, were despoiled.’

  ‘There’s no pattern, is there? Some victims he mutilates, and others he doesn’t.’ Lonsdale felt dispirited, unable to see a way forward.

  ‘Let’s think this through,’ said Hulda. ‘Iverson – I think we can safely name him as our culprit, given he had been seen, and his past record – has been killing people and taking their cerebra. Obviously, there’s a limited number of times he can do this and escape, as there would be a public outcry, and the police would mount a major hunt. So, he concealed what he did in his early victims.’