Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘You lost it?’ pounced Hulda. ‘When? Please think. This is important.’

  Jack frowned. ‘It fell out of my pocket at the park – which is when Emelia saw it – but I put it back in my coat. But the coat – and the antimacassar with it – disappeared last night.’

  ‘Where did it disappear?’ demanded Lonsdale, finally regaining some of his composure.

  Jack was becoming irked. ‘Can’t a man spend a night away without being the subject of all this commotion? What’s wrong with you?’ He glowered in a way that, along with the dark circles under his eyes, told Lonsdale he had a headache, almost certainly from having had too much to drink.

  ‘We should tell Peters,’ said Hulda briskly and, without further ado, sat and penned a note informing the inspector that he now had an unidentified body. Once the butler had gone to deliver it, Hulda stood with her hands on her hips.

  ‘Right,’ she said, all business. ‘Lonsdale needs to eat. He’s white as a ghost. Tell your people to prepare devilled kidneys, curried potatoes, and scrambled eggs with a healthy shake of black pepper. Tasteless food is no good for a man recovering from a shock. Besides, I cannot bear it, and I’m hungry, too.’

  Jack hastened to relay the ‘request’ to the kitchen. ‘Now tell me what’s going on,’ he said.

  Lonsdale did, falteringly at first, but with more conviction as his shock receded. The food helped – Hulda was right about that.

  ‘And now you,’ he said to Jack when he had finished. ‘Where have you been since you vanished from the park without leaving any hint about where you might be.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that I was under any obligation to do so,’ said Jack stiffly, but then relented. ‘I was with John Otherington at his club – the Regent’s. It’s a grim old place, with lazy and incompetent staff. Anyway, the upshot is that they gave someone else my coat, leaving me with some shabby thing.’ He shuddered. ‘I think Otherington has mine, and I shall demand it back later.’

  ‘The “O” in your diary referred to Otherington?’ asked Lonsdale.

  ‘You looked in my diary?’ Jack was outraged. ‘A chap’s diary is his own personal business!’

  ‘It was an emergency,’ said Lonsdale, unrepentant.

  ‘Well, I don’t see why you were worried,’ said Jack, miffed. ‘I sent a message to tell you I might be very late back. There was a lot to drink, you see.’

  ‘Then you should choose your messengers more carefully – it never arrived.’

  Jack grimaced. ‘I hired a lad from the Regent’s. I told you it wasn’t a decent place.’

  ‘So why did you go?’

  ‘Because Otherington – a clerk from work – invited me. He’s a lonely sort of fellow and I felt sorry for him, so I accepted. He’s damned hospitable – one drink led to another, and … well, you know how it is.’

  ‘So you’ve been drinking all night?’ asked Hulda in distaste.

  ‘Not at all!’ said Jack defensively. ‘I spent a good part asleep in the reading room. Naturally, I assumed Otherington would stay with me, as it’s considered poor manners to leave a chap slumbering in a club that isn’t his own. But he didn’t.’

  ‘He abandoned you to go home?’

  Jack nodded. ‘But he drank even more than I did, so that explains the lapse in manners. Regardless, I suspect he donned my coat in a drunken stupor, leaving me with his ratty old thing.’

  ‘Then poor, drunk Otherington is probably the man the police found dead,’ said Hulda.

  Jack turned white. ‘Otherington is dead? No! We were getting along like a house on fire last night! I was beginning to like the man. Please don’t say it was for my coat … a better one than most members of that place owned!’

  ‘No, the coat was irrelevant,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Did Otherington tell you about the Imperial Demographic Institute?’

  Jack gaped at him. ‘How did you know that? Yes, he blathered on about some survey he was participating in there.’

  Jack listened with growing horror as Lonsdale explained his theory: ‘I think someone there has embarked on a two-tiered study. The first is a battery of tests to ascertain the religion, morals, intelligence, etc., of the subject. The second compares these results to the subject’s cerebrum.’

  ‘A cerebrum?’ echoed Jack. ‘How? Those are inside their heads.’

  ‘Not once the likes of Baycroft, Morgan and Pawley have been issued with orders to collect them.’

  ‘Then Otherington got it badly wrong,’ said Jack soberly. ‘He said the work there is sensitive, and the government wants it kept quiet. He said it’s noble stuff, of paramount importance to the future of the Empire. I was on the verge of volunteering when he’d finished waxing lyrical.’

  ‘What did he tell you exactly?’

  ‘That there are tests for solving mathematical and logical problems, and interviews about religious and ethical matters. There’s also a physical examination, where they measure your height, weight, hat-size, and so on. Otherington swore me to secrecy – the scientists running the programme say that if people know what they’ll be asked, it’ll ruin the objectivity. Gentlemen and ladies are trusted to be discreet, but there’s a deferred payment for the rest to stop them from talking. If they blab, they don’t get paid.’

  ‘Perhaps they should have made a deferred payment to Otherington, then,’ said Lonsdale dryly.

  ‘We should go to this Imperial Demographic Institute,’ determined Hulda. ‘It sounds more sinister than anything I’ve ever encountered, and The PMG should tell people what it’s up to.’

  ‘But I promised Peters—’ Lonsdale began. He stopped when there was a knock at the front door.

  Moments later, the butler delivered a message addressed to Jack, who opened it, then frowned in mystification before handing it to Lonsdale.

  It was a pleasure to interview you and find out what was inside your head. Thank you for visiting the Imperial Demographic Institute.

  ‘But I never went anywhere near the place,’ said Jack, shaking his head. ‘And nor will I now.’

  ‘It isn’t meant for you,’ said Lonsdale, knowing exactly what was going on. ‘It’s for me. And it’s not a thank you, either. It’s an invitation.’

  ‘Explain, Lonsdale,’ ordered Hulda.

  ‘Whoever wrote this thinks Jack is dead,’ said Lonsdale. ‘They’re goading me, hoping I’ll storm over in a rage, so they can finish what Baycroft failed to do.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Jack.

  ‘And I was wrong when I said that that the coat was irrelevant. I’ve no doubt that they would have claimed Otherington eventually – you said he was a lonely sort of chap, and they have a preference for such folks. However, this note tells me that you were the one they wanted – Otherington was killed because he was wearing your coat. Now they are daring me to go there in order to do something about it. Doubtless they hope Friederichs will accompany me, so they can be rid of both of us.’

  ‘But once they killed him, they would have realized Jack wasn’t the victim if they knew Otherington,’ objected Hulda.

  ‘But it doesn’t matter if it was me or not,’ said Jack, suddenly understanding. ‘All that matters is that Alec thinks it was me.’

  ‘But how would they know what he’s thinking?’ asked Hulda, unconvinced.

  ‘There’s only one way,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Someone knows that Peters told me of Jack’s murder. So it must be Peters or Ramsey who is working with them. I’d like to say I trust Peters, but he was agonizingly slow last night.’

  ‘Ramsey is a pompous, upper-class ass who cares nothing for the victims,’ said Hulda. ‘He interfered with Walker’s inquest so that some basic questions wouldn’t be asked. He delayed Greaves’s inquest indefinitely. And he ordered Peters not to investigate their murders. He’s done nothing but sidetrack and obstruct the investigation from the start. He’s the snake in the cradle.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Go to the Demographic Institute—’ began
Hulda.

  ‘No,’ said Lonsdale decisively. ‘That’s what they’re expecting. We’ll go tomorrow – our delaying will confuse them. For now, we’ll drive by in a hansom to get a feel for it, which will make our trip tomorrow safer. If Peters is there, we can stop and tell him what we’ve reasoned.’

  ‘But surely not everything – in case he’s involved!’ Hulda was horrified.

  ‘Of course, not everything. Enough so he’ll be able to help if we need him, but not so much that he knows we suspect him or Ramsey.’

  Hulda grinned and gave him a rather painful thump on the arm. ‘We’re very near the end of this. And then we’ll have a story to rock London!’

  THIRTEEN

  Brunswick Gardens, just west of Kensington Palace, was a shady street dominated by a medieval church and large, graceful Georgian terraces with pillared entrances, wrought-iron railings and shuttered windows.

  The driver had been ordered to traverse the street as slowly as possible without attracting the attention of the police. Well before they reached the Institute, Lonsdale and Hulda could see these were out in number. Peters was talking to three, while others were conducting house-to-house enquiries and swarming in and out of the building in the middle of the street.

  The Demographic Institute was more modern than its neighbours, and boasted an elegant edifice of carved white marble, blind arcading and a splendid portico. There were tall windows on all three floors, and the building was entered through an impressive arched doorway at the head of a flight of wide stairs.

  Before Lonsdale could stop her, Hulda had jumped from the still-moving carriage and was striding towards Peters, arms swinging purposefully.

  ‘Did you receive my message?’ she demanded. ‘The body you found wasn’t Jack Lonsdale. Indeed, it wasn’t even a barrister – it was a clerk.’

  Peters regarded her lugubriously. ‘Do you know his identity?’

  ‘John Otherington,’ replied Lonsdale, who had just caught up with her. ‘I don’t know his address, but the Regent’s Club will.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ muttered Peters dryly. ‘I’ve rarely met a less-competent group of individuals.’

  Nevertheless, he nodded to one of his men, who clambered into the carriage that had brought Lonsdale and Hulda and clattered away.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask us how we know?’ demanded Hulda, regarding him through eyes that were narrowed with suspicion.

  ‘I assume because Jack Lonsdale returned home and answered some questions,’ said Peters, maddeningly unflustered. ‘But we agreed you were to stay away. You’ve been a great help, but we can take matters from here. Go home, Lonsdale, and take Miss Friederichs with you. I promise to keep you informed of any developments.’

  ‘We can prove the people here are involved in these murders,’ said Lonsdale. ‘If you’ll let us.’

  ‘Not now, thank you. When it’s over I shall listen all you like. Now please go home.’

  ‘Is there a reason we can’t stand here and watch?’ demanded Hulda, growing more indignant by the minute.

  ‘There’s nothing to watch,’ said Peters. ‘There’s nothing untoward happening in there, and Superintendent Ramsey has instructed me to pester the scientists no further. He informs me that his orders come from the highest possible authority.’

  ‘From God?’ asked Hulda archly. ‘Ramsey must be powerful indeed!’

  The ends of Peters’ moustache quivered in amusement. Lonsdale recalled that Otherington had told Jack that the government wanted the Institute’s work kept secret, but Lonsdale found Ramsey closing the investigation sinister – particularly as Peters could not have had time to conduct a thorough search.

  At that moment, Ramsey emerged from the building, his assistant Chief Inspector Leonard at his heels. Ramsey glanced briefly at Lonsdale and Hulda, snapped something to Leonard, and strode off in the other direction.

  ‘We’ve just heard that the “highest authority” has deemed this place off limits,’ said Hulda accusingly, turning the full force of her personality on Leonard as he approached. ‘Who is it? The Home Secretary? The Prime Minister? The Queen?’

  ‘I understand it was more of a corporate decision, madam,’ replied Leonard, not at all discomfited by her temper. ‘The Institute has been conducting important research for several years, and no one wants to see its findings harmed by unwarranted publicity.’

  ‘Poppycock!’ snapped Hulda. ‘Something very odd is going on here, and I mean to find out what.’

  She began to flounce towards the entrance, but Leonard caught her arm in a grip that was gentle but firm and stopped her.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I must insist you leave now. If Superintendent Ramsey sees you interfering, he’ll have you arrested.’

  Lonsdale hastily offered his arm to Hulda, and was surprised when she accepted it and allowed herself to be led away. Leonard followed them down the road until he could flag down a hansom.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, offering his hand to help Hulda climb inside. ‘But we have our orders.’ He turned to the driver. ‘Take the young lady home, please. Longridge Road. And no stopping.’

  Hulda sat rigidly in the carriage until it had turned several corners.

  ‘Driver!’ she called imperiously. ‘Pull over.’

  ‘The gentleman said not to,’ objected the driver. ‘And he gave me a shilling.’

  ‘I’m about to be sick,’ said Hulda icily. ‘You have ten seconds before the inside of your hackney will never be the same again.’

  The hansom immediately halted, and Hulda scrambled out. She straightened her skirts, patted her hair into place and looked around haughtily. It was obvious to anyone that she was the picture of robust good health, and vomiting was not on her immediate agenda. Lonsdale climbed out more slowly.

  ‘You needn’t bother to wait,’ she said loftily. ‘I might be some time.’

  The driver cracked his whip and the carriage moved away. Apparently, there were limits to what he would do for a shilling, and taking on Hulda was well beyond them.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘We can’t go back there. Peters is—’

  ‘Peters is powerless!’ snapped Hulda. ‘Ramsey is behind all this! How did Leonard know where I live? I don’t give my address to just anybody. He knew it because Ramsey told him, and Ramsey doesn’t want us investigating.’

  Lonsdale sensed she was right. ‘So we’ll visit the Institute ourselves, but I stand by what I said earlier. We go tomorrow when they won’t be expecting us.’

  ‘Very well.’ She began to walk away, then stopped. ‘I want you to promise me one thing, however.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I shall have my gun. Bring yours as well.’

  That night three people thought seriously about how Lonsdale and Hulda would slip into the Imperial Demographic Institute. On Longridge Road, Hulda carefully cleaned and loaded her pistol, and laid out the clothes that would serve most effectively in helping her to conceal it.

  At Cleveland Square, Lonsdale cleaned the muck of the Thames from his pistol, and pondered ways to invade a place he imagined was fairly secure. Would they have to smash locks or break windows? Slowly, he began to gather a range of tools that might be needed.

  Not far away, in Chesham Place, a third man wondered what the reporters would do. He had no doubt that Lonsdale would come to the Institute, and was equally certain that Hulda would accompany him, especially after the note he had sent to Cleveland Square. It was a shame they had to die the next day: they were obviously intelligent and resourceful, and, despite being a nuisance, had earned his grudging respect. Moreover, Lonsdale had seemed quite a gentleman when they had met. Under different circumstances, the forces that brought them together might have made them friends.

  The man jotted down some private thoughts in his diary, as he did each evening. He recalled how, more than a dozen years before, with the aid of one short letter, he had conceived the plan now nearing fruition. He wondered what destiny had brought Lonsdale
into his otherwise well-ordered world. It was interesting how destiny had brought the two of them together: one soon to be world-famous, the other – like so many – to have his cerebrum in a jar.

  ‘We need to know as much as we can about this place,’ said Hulda, surveying the Demographic Institute from a discreet distance the following day. ‘If we sit under the trees in the churchyard, we can observe comings and goings and make sure it’s safe to go in.’

  The plan sounded suitably cautious to Lonsdale, although it obliged them to push their way into the middle of some thick bushes for an unobstructed view of the Institute entrance. It would not be comfortable to stand there for long, thought Lonsdale, and it became less so when Hulda wedged herself next to him.

  Their surveillance began around nine in the morning. Dozens of people from all walks of life came and went, but there was only one policeman in sight: a lone constable at the front door. As slipping past him was out of the question, Lonsdale suggested looking at the back. This was reached via an alley behind the Kensington Dispensary, a narrow lane flanked by tall walls pierced by locked gates through which rear gardens could be glimpsed. The Institute’s had a door banded with steel, above which glinted broken glass. The wall, too, was topped with sharp, protective wire.

  ‘For a research facility, these people seem remarkably conscious of their security,’ mused Hulda.

  ‘I could throw my coat over the barbs to climb over it,’ suggested Lonsdale, eyeing the precautions uneasily, and wondering what had led him to be pondering how to burgle a government-approved research foundation.

  ‘That never works when I try it,’ said Hulda, drawing a surprised look. ‘What about through a neighbour’s garden?’ Lonsdale went to the nearest gate, but it was locked, and looked sturdy. The one on the other side was also locked, but the bolt snapped under his hefty kick. He ushered Hulda inside, and closed it quickly behind them.

  The wall that divided the neighbouring garden from the Institute’s was tall, but a well-placed compost heap allowed them to hoist themselves up to peer over the top. They looked into a rectangular yard, mostly paved, but with a tree and a bench that would be pleasant in summer. It appeared to be deserted. Lonsdale jumped down, and helped Hulda do the same. Carefully, they crept towards the back door.