Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘And Iverson is not dead, as Peters claims,’ said Lonsdale. ‘I know what I saw at the train station. He’s alive and he has help – men like Morgan, whom Jamie mentioned.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Hulda. ‘I’m also sure he’s the man we want. So, he’s been killing people and removing parts of their brains …’

  ‘The five people Cath Walker claimed are dead are so well hidden that their bodies have yet to be discovered,’ said Lonsdale. ‘And the removal of Donovan’s and Yeats’s cerebra was also cunningly concealed.’

  ‘It was only because Bradwell was observant that it was discovered,’ said Hulda. ‘Which brings up the question of him – Bradwell.’

  ‘Well, he was so thoroughly rattled that he disappeared on an impromptu holiday with his family and resigned his position as police surgeon. I don’t think he’s involved, but I do think he’s been warned not to help us any more.’

  ‘Spineless!’ sneered Hulda contemptuously.

  ‘Better spineless than brainless,’ said Lonsdale.

  ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t be looking at Bradwell, but at his assistant, O’Connor,’ suggested Hulda. ‘He went missing during the time that Bradwell took his holiday.’

  ‘He may have disappeared because he was also intimidated,’ said Lonsdale. ‘And he fled to save his life. There’s nothing to say he’s involved. But speculating is taking us nowhere. Let’s go back to facts.’

  ‘Well, we know Walker decided to put an end to it – not by telling the police, because if Iverson was involved, so might other officers have been. I have not forgotten that high-ranking officers came to warn us against investigating, and when we did it anyway, we were attacked.’

  ‘So her only other option was the press,’ said Lonsdale, ‘hoping that the resulting furore would see Iverson and any cronies arrested. But she was murdered herself before she could do more than pique our interest. The killer poisoned Greaves first, then he cut Cath’s throat. But that’s odd, isn’t it? Why poison one victim and slit the throat of another?’

  ‘It is odd,’ agreed Hulda. ‘Everything about the case is odd. Indeed, at the risk of sounding defeated, I wonder if we shall ever have any answers.’

  When the drizzle brought an early dusk, Hulda went home, having refused to let Lonsdale accompany her. A few minutes later, Inspector Peters was shown into the drawing room.

  ‘You’ve heard the news, I take it?’ Peters asked. ‘Another victim relieved of his cerebrum?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lonsdale, noticing the rings of tiredness around the inspector’s eyes. ‘Iverson strikes again.’

  ‘Iverson’s dead,’ stated Peters firmly. ‘I’ve known the man for twenty years, and I can assure you it was his body we dredged from the Thames.’

  ‘But I saw him on Friday,’ insisted Lonsdale. ‘And it was him – the same man I saw at Donovan’s house fire, and who attacked me in Bermondsey. Unless you think a different man happened to have a scar through his eyebrow and be wearing the uniform of PC six-nine-six-D.’

  ‘Regardless,’ said Peters, in a way that showed he clearly thought Lonsdale was mistaken, ‘he seems not to like you much.’ He pulled his pipe from his pocket and began to tamp down the tobacco. ‘I wonder whether we might put that dislike to use.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I’ll be blunt. These murders are random – there’s no pattern in location, time, choice of victim, or anything else. Ergo, it’ll be almost impossible to catch the culprit. You don’t need me to tell you that the milkman’s fate will hit tomorrow’s headlines like a mortar shell. We must lay hold of this maniac before we have mass panic.’

  Lonsdale nodded. ‘But what do you want from me?’

  ‘Our evidence suggests that the same man or group of men are responsible for these deaths, and I’m inclined to think that he or they have also made attempts on your life.’

  ‘Oh Lord!’ gulped Lonsdale. ‘You want me to wander about the city in the hope that he’ll come after me?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Peters, without the trace of a smile. ‘Of course, you’ll be closely followed by my best officers, and I’ll be on hand to make sure nothing goes wrong.’

  ‘But what can you do if he shoots at me from a distance?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘He might still escape.’

  ‘He might,’ agreed Peters. ‘And he might kill you. But I’ll make damn sure he doesn’t get your cerebrum.’ He could tell his last statement was not much comfort. ‘I know I have no right to ask, Lonsdale, but you won’t be safe until he’s under lock and key anyway.’

  ‘True,’ said Lonsdale, ‘but even so …’

  ‘Of course, there have also been attempts on the life of Miss Friederichs,’ said Peters slyly. ‘Perhaps she’ll—’

  ‘No!’ Lonsdale was horrified at that notion, sure she’d volunteer in an instant. He took a deep breath and looked into Peters’s gloomy features. ‘Keep her safe and I’ll do what you ask.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Peters. ‘I know there’s little I can say that’ll be of comfort, but please believe that my men will give all they have. And I’ll send a message to Superintendent Ramsey, who will get someone to go to Miss Friederichs’ home to watch over her.’

  Lonsdale recalled seeing natives in Bechuanaland leaving tethered goats as bait for lions. Now he would be put in the same position.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked grimly.

  Peters studied the backs of his hands, and Lonsdale sensed he was not happy either. ‘You’ll need to act normally – it’s no good me suggesting a walk down the Strand if you never usually set foot there. Our man would know something was amiss, and he might not go for the bait … for you. What do you normally do on a Sunday evening?’

  Lonsdale swallowed hard. ‘You mean we start now? Tonight?’

  ‘Unless you’d rather wait for him to come to you.’

  It was a fair point.

  ‘I was about to go to the Oxford and Cambridge Club to see if my brother’s there. He should have been home by now, but …’

  ‘Would you take a hansom?’

  ‘If I can find one. It’s usually relatively easy at Westbourne Terrace. What will you do? Follow in another?’

  ‘In another two or three. We could arrange to have a man in one with you, although I suspect that would reduce the chances of the killer showing himself.’

  ‘I’ll go alone,’ said Lonsdale. ‘If Jack’s not at the club, I’ll go to his chambers at the Inner Temple – Number Three Paper Buildings.’

  Peters stood. ‘It’s ten minutes before eight now. Give me half an hour to organize my men, then leave the house and go about your business. Walk normally.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Not too slowly and not too quickly. Don’t look around for him, but at the same time, be vigilant. When you reach Westbourne Terrace, approach the hansom with a driver wearing a flower in his buttonhole. He’ll be one of ours. Go directly to your club, not stopping for any reason. Is that clear?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ said Lonsdale. ‘If I find Jack, I’ll stay for a while and come home with him. No, I won’t! I don’t want him involved. If he’s there, I’ll go to Northumberland Street. If he isn’t there, I’ll take the same hansom to the Inner Temple.’

  ‘Very well. I won’t wish you luck, because that simply implies an element of good fortune. But I’ll warn you to take care. And no deviating from the plan.’

  Lonsdale nodded understanding. ‘But what if he’s watching the house now? He’ll see you leave and his suspicions will be raised.’

  Peters gave a grim little chuckle. ‘Credit us with some sense, man. I entered by the back door, and I’ll leave the same way. No one will see me.’

  Lonsdale glanced at the clock in the hall as Peters took his leave, and wondered how he would pass the next thirty minutes. His clothes were still damp, and hardly suitable for the club, so he went upstairs to change. He opened a trunk in a spare bedroom that he had turned into a rather messy storage area. There, wrapped carefully
in a well-oiled cloth, was the revolver he had carried in Africa.

  He studied the weapon for a moment. It had been given to him by an officer who had been killed in Wolseley’s campaign against the Ashanti. Lonsdale had learned to shoot well but, even a decade later, he could not look at it without thinking of his friend. He loaded it, put it in his pocket and headed downstairs.

  Finally, it was time to go. He left the house and walked as purposefully as he could towards Westbourne Terrace. His heart pounded when a drunk staggered across the street, but he forced himself to breathe normally again when he recognized one of Peters’s men. He reached the line of hansoms, and looked for a driver wearing a flower in his buttonhole. With horror, he saw there were two: one sporting a bunch of daisies, another a drooping daffodil. One fingered the daisies and winked.

  Lonsdale gripped his revolver in his pocket and climbed into the cab. Then they were away, the horse trotting briskly. At one point, another hansom pulled level with theirs, and, for a horrifying instant, Lonsdale thought Iverson would lean out and shoot him. He clutched his own weapon harder, but the driver slowed and the other carriage rattled past.

  After what seemed an eternity, they arrived at the club, where the doorman told Lonsdale that Jack hadn’t been there that day. Lonsdale returned to the hansom.

  From a window of the smoking room, a tall, slim man watched Lonsdale arrive and leave. He sighed irritably and threw down his newspaper in disgust, causing another member to glance up in annoyance at the disturbance. The man at the window fixed him with such a cold, harsh look that the fellow blanched. By the time the tall man looked out of the window again, Lonsdale’s driver was awaiting his instructions.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ asked the driver, when Lonsdale gave him none.

  How stupid, thought Lonsdale. If he were acting normally, he would be expected to give directions to the driver, even though they both knew where the next stop would be.

  ‘Inner Temple,’ he called, sitting back and trying to relax. The hansom headed for the Strand. It was late enough that the streets were clear, and they made good time. They turned into the pleasant courtyard outside the library. Lonsdale glanced both ways before alighting and then headed for Jack’s chambers. A sharp yelp made him spin round.

  There was nothing to see. The driver slouched in his seat with his head down against the drizzle, and the horse stamped restlessly. Then Lonsdale looked more closely. The driver was sitting very still. As the horse jolted the vehicle, the driver slowly tipped forward and pitched out of his seat to the ground.

  Lonsdale did not wait to see more. He turned and raced to the nearest building, which was the library. It was locked, although he could see lights at the windows, so he knew there were people inside. He pounded on the door, but his yell to attract attention was choked off as a strong arm snaked around his neck so tightly he could barely breathe, followed immediately by the touch of cold steel against his throat.

  ‘Now, then, sir,’ came a calm, reasonable voice that Lonsdale recognized instantly from the scene of the fire at Donovan’s house. ‘We don’t want to be making a racket and disturbing these good folk reading, do we?’

  It was Iverson. Lonsdale tried to struggle, but could not remember having ever been in such a powerful grip. Then he felt his captor tense in anticipation of the sharp stroke that would slice through his neck.

  ‘Wait!’ he croaked, trying to gain some time. ‘Was it you? Did you kill them all?’

  ‘Now who might you be meaning, sir?’ asked Iverson, with unseemly interest.

  ‘Poole,’ said Lonsdale, feeling the grip ease very slightly. Where was Peters?

  ‘Certainly, I killed the milkman,’ said Iverson, sounding chillingly pleasant. ‘He was quite a challenge. I went to see him in uniform, but he wouldn’t speak to a policeman. So I went back in my civilian clothes, and the problem was solved.’

  ‘But there was no problem with Donovan, was there?’ said Lonsdale, playing for time. ‘That was flawless.’

  ‘Practice makes perfect, they say, and that was definitely one that filled me with pride,’ said Iverson, as if claiming to have helped a lady across the road, rather than confessing to a murder.

  ‘And Yeats – the entertainer who was murdered?’

  ‘Murder is such an unpleasant word,’ said Iverson, his voice becoming harsher. ‘I think “sacrificed” might be a better way of putting it.’

  ‘Sacrificed?’ gasped Lonsdale, visions of a Satanist coven flashing through his mind. ‘Sacrificed to what? To whom?’

  ‘So many questions! I can hardly keep up with them. Sacrificed to the cause, of course. Just as you are about to be. That will happen tonight – it’s been made quite clear.’

  ‘By whom?’ asked Lonsdale, wondering if Iverson really was receiving instructions from someone else, or if he was one of those who ‘heard’ mysterious voices. ‘Who’s making you do these things?’

  ‘Depends what things you’re referring to,’ he replied enigmatically. ‘But it doesn’t really matter, does it? Not to you. Not now.’

  Lonsdale tried to jerk away, but Iverson held him too tightly. Suddenly the door to the library opened and a short, balding barrister with thick glasses stepped out.

  ‘Is someone knocking?’ he asked. His jaw dropped in horror when he saw the knife.

  The interruption made Iverson loosen his grip fractionally, which was enough for Lonsdale to lift one leg and stamp down as hard as he could on the policeman’s foot. Iverson gave a sharp hiss of pain, and his arm flinched upwards, scoring a shallow nick in Lonsdale’s neck. But his wrist ended up near the reporter’s face, so Lonsdale sank his teeth into it. The knife fell to the ground, and Lonsdale twisted and drove his elbow into his attacker’s chest. Iverson let go entirely, and Lonsdale slithered away from him, fumbling for his revolver.

  But before Lonsdale could take aim, Iverson produced a truncheon and struck out with it, cracking it down on Lonsdale’s forearm, making him drop the gun. It skittered into the bushes. He swung again, and Lonsdale jerked back to avoid the blow, then ducked behind one of the Corinthian pillars.

  ‘Stop this at once!’ blustered the barrister.

  Drawing attention to himself was a mistake. In an instant, Iverson scooped up his knife and grabbed him by his coat, pulling him close to his chest.

  ‘Let him go,’ shouted Lonsdale, as Iverson put his knife at the little lawyer’s throat. ‘He has nothing to do with this, and they haven’t told you to sacrifice him, have they?’

  The policeman looked at Lonsdale with a mixture of hatred and wonder. ‘In some ways, it’s a shame you have to die, Mr Lonsdale. You do appreciate what we do. Most people would still be talking about “killing”, when we both know they’re “sacrifices”. But as to your question, I don’t think it appropriate that a civilian should be asking such things of a member of the force.’

  ‘My apologies,’ said Lonsdale, at a loss as to how to deal with someone so patently insane, but hoping to keep the terrified barrister alive until Peters came. ‘It was clever, the way you killed Greaves and Cath. How did you manage it?’

  ‘That wasn’t me,’ said Iverson, ‘although I would have done it. She was going to tell you about me. They wanted her killed quickly, but I was busy collecting another sample.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone who is hidden in a place you won’t find, no matter how hard you look. Anyway, one of my colleagues did it.’

  ‘Who? Pauly or …’ Lonsdale broke off, trying to remember the name Jamie had given him. ‘Morgan. Was it Morgan?’

  ‘You know Morgan? That is a surprise. But then, if you know us all, shouldn’t you be able to tell our work apart? Certainly, you don’t think my sacrifices are like those of the others?’

  ‘Others? How many of you are there?’

  ‘Now, Mr Lonsdale, I know you journalists like numbers, but it wouldn’t be polite to tell other people’s secrets, would it?’

  ‘What are you doing with the cerebra?’


  ‘I give them to the people I work for, of course. That’s why the sacrifices were made, after all. They told me to strangle or slit the throat, but never to poison. It might pollute, you understand.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lonsdale, speaking loudly to mask the sound of the police rattle in the distance. ‘And did they tell you what they were doing with them?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to know,’ said Iverson with a shudder. ‘It’s a disgusting business, if you ask me. I think they’re quite mad, personally. Morgan is mad, and so is that nasty little tyke in the Müller cut-down—’

  ‘Pauly?’ interrupted Lonsdale.

  Iverson nodded. ‘Even the people in the hospital thought he was mad.’

  Desperately trying to keep Iverson talking, Lonsdale thought about the people whom Mrs Greaves had said had disappeared. ‘Did these mad people tell you to sacrifice the Johnson sisters and Leonard Baycroft?’

  ‘Baycroft?’ snapped Iverson, his manner suddenly changing and a hint of real menace in his voice. ‘What do you know about him?’

  The knife jerked up, and Lonsdale saw that he had made a mistake. He moved out from behind the pillar, but before he could come any closer, Iverson drew his blade with great force across the neck of the barrister, and let the dying man drop to the ground. Without pausing, he leapt at Lonsdale.

  TWELVE

  Shocked by the casual brutality of the attack, Lonsdale darted back behind the pillar, trying to keep it between him and Iverson, who lunged at him, knife in one hand, truncheon in the other. He wondered how long he would be able to duck and weave, when the penalty for failure would be his life. Then another police rattle sounded nearby. The police were nearly there!

  ‘Peters!’ Lonsdale yelled. ‘Here!’

  Iverson’s face twisted with hatred and he swung his truncheon. Lonsdale ducked away from the blow aimed at his head, and heard the wood splinter as it struck the pillar. Iverson grunted in pain as the shock of the blow travelled up his arm.