Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘And you,’ retorted Lonsdale, ‘are insane.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Weeks, annoyance creeping into his voice. ‘You just lack the intellect to understand my work, which will be admired for centuries to come. The world’s greatest mind tells me that my research will cause just as great a watershed in scientific thought as On the Origin of Species did when it was published twenty-three years ago.’

  ‘The world’s greatest mind?’ sneered Lonsdale in disgust. ‘No reputable scientist would endorse you.’

  ‘Darwin would!’ Weeks shouted, his voice quivering with agitation. He strode over to where the framed letter had pride of place on the wall and took it down. ‘Look, Lonsdale! Darwin himself – blessing my work!’

  Lonsdale and Hulda looked at the letter in its thick gilt frame, dated 3 December 1869.

  My dear Galton,

  I have been reading your book Hereditary Genius, and I do not think I ever in all my life read anything more interesting and original. You have made a convert of an opponent, for I have always maintained that, excepting fools, men did not differ much in intellect, only in zeal and hard work. I see now that education and environment produce only a small effect on the mind and that a man’s natural mental abilities are derived by inheritance. Your contention that human intellect and talent are therefore subject to natural selection and can be improved – whether by nature or by our own concerted efforts – is compelling. I congratulate you.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Charles Darwin

  ‘But this wasn’t written to you,’ said Hulda, bewildered. ‘It was to Galton! How did you get it?’

  ‘I took it from Darwin’s home before he sent it. It was just sitting there for me to find. When I read it, everything became clear! Even then, Galton was expounding the theories that have led to what he calls eugenics. The letter proves Darwin knew that was the way forward. All I had to do was to carry it out!’

  ‘But it is unethical!’ cried Lonsdale.

  ‘Just the opposite!’ said Weeks. ‘Darwin realized that progress depends on the survival of the fittest. But as modern medicine helps the sick, and governments support the weak, there’s nothing to check the inferior stock. But I’m attaining an understanding of the true differences among individuals and the determining features of natural selection. Through my work, humanity will secure ultimate perfection. The shouldering aside of the weak by the strong, and the dominance of the superior races – these are the decrees of natural selection, and these are what my work will guarantee.’

  Lonsdale saw that Weeks had done nothing but twist Darwin’s and Galton’s theories into pathetic, evil visions. ‘You’re not a scientist,’ he said in disgust, ‘just a self-righteous, murdering lunatic.’

  Weeks glared. ‘It’s been interesting talking to you, but now you begin to bore me. Your efforts to interfere with my work have failed, but you can be assured that your cerebra will be added to my collection today – to advance my great and noble theories.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Who’s been protecting you, other than Wilson. Who?’

  ‘Enough,’ said Weeks, and gestured for his thugs to enter. ‘Remember that a squashed organ is no good to me.’

  He strode off, slamming the door behind him.

  Lonsdale glanced at the three louts, as wicked, mirthless grins crept across their faces. He stuck his hand inside his coat, but the biggest jumped at him, knocking him backwards before he could reach his gun. He followed with a swing, but Lonsdale ducked and came back with a right cross that sent him reeling. Meanwhile, as another grabbed Hulda, she sank her teeth into his arm. The dog began to bark frantically, snapping the air with its dripping fangs. Its owner let it go, and chaos ensued.

  The dog was poorly trained, and entered the melee little caring whom it bit. It delivered a sharp nip to its owner’s ankle, then sank its teeth into the calf of the man Hulda had already bitten. The man yelled and kicked out, catching it on the nose. The dog yelped, and retreated under Weeks’s desk. With the owner’s attention briefly diverted, Lonsdale landed a hefty blow to his stomach, driving the air from his lungs so he dropped to his knees. He followed it with an uppercut to the jaw, which dropped him senseless. Meanwhile, there was a thump as Hulda’s attacker slumped to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Lonsdale saw her holding a heavy paperweight that had been on the desk.

  Having recovered sufficiently to determine he wanted no more, the first man made for the door. Lonsdale leapt at him, pushing him hard against the wall, and proceeded to deliver a series of short jabbing punches to his head until he, too, slid to the ground.

  ‘We’re becoming quite proficient at this,’ said Hulda coolly. ‘Now, let’s find Weeks!’

  Lonsdale pulled out his gun, then paused. ‘No, we fetch Peters and Leonard,’ he said, dropping it into the outside right pocket of his coat. ‘We’ve done enough.’

  They left Weeks’s office and ran down a flight of stairs.

  ‘That way,’ shouted Lonsdale, and they went through a set of doors leading to the front.

  ‘Leonard!’ gasped Hulda, spotting the policeman standing in the hallway talking to a man in a white coat.

  Leonard looked up in astonishment, while the other man turned round slowly.

  ‘O’Connor!’ exclaimed Lonsdale.

  ‘Dr O’Connor Sorenson, actually,’ said the mortuary assistant. The Irish brogue was gone, and in its place was a drawling upper-class accent. ‘But not at your service.’

  ‘Chief Inspector, arrest this man!’ ordered Hulda imperiously.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Leonard, pulling out a revolver. ‘Much as I’d like to oblige a lady of the press.’

  Hulda gaped as Leonard pointed his gun unwaveringly at her.

  ‘Professor Weeks said he’d taken care of you,’ said Leonard, ‘but he spoke too soon. That comes of having others do your dirty work.’

  ‘You?’ breathed Lonsdale. He glanced at the door – could he run out to reach Peters?

  Leonard shook his head.

  ‘I wouldn’t, Lonsdale. I’ll shoot you and Miss Friederichs. And then shoot the constable outside. It will be easy to explain away – you are trespassing in direct contravention of police orders.’

  Lonsdale sensed that Leonard was a far more dangerous adversary than Weeks, and that he and Hulda would not escape a second time. After all, Leonard had more to lose if The PMG exposed what was happening at the Institute – Weeks would use influential friends to escape justice, but Leonard had no such connections.

  ‘Now,’ said Leonard, ‘I doubt Weeks will be overjoyed to see you again, but go through that door.’

  Lonsdale glanced at Hulda; both were still armed, but attempting to reach their weapons was too dangerous. Leonard would kill at least one of them before they could stop him.

  ‘I told you to go through that door,’ said Leonard when neither moved. The look on his face indicated there was no alternative. O’Connor led, and Leonard brought up the rear. They went through a lecture theatre and beyond to a series of offices, in one of which was Weeks. His eyes became hard and cold, and he looked at Leonard for an answer.

  ‘You might be a great scientist, Weeks,’ said Leonard, ‘but you don’t know anything about hiring the right men for this kind of job.’

  He stood to one side of Lonsdale, the gun in his left hand. Lonsdale eased closer to him, wondering what the chances were of jumping him before he could fire. Slim, he decided. He glanced out of the window, and saw Peters talking to several constables.

  ‘Don’t expect help from that quarter,’ Leonard said, watching him. ‘All the windows in the front of the building are specially made, and you won’t attract attention by breaking one. You could hit one with a rock and it wouldn’t shatter. Besides, I don’t make mistakes.’ He waved with his gun towards a cabinet that stood next to a desk on the other side of the room. ‘Stand over there and keep your hands where I can see them.’

  ‘So it was you all the time,’ said
Lonsdale. ‘Not Peters or Ramsey.’

  ‘Neither has the vision to understand what Professor Weeks is doing,’ responded Leonard shortly. ‘His research will make a great step forward for our society.’

  ‘But you’re a policeman,’ objected Lonsdale. ‘You should want to help those who can’t protect themselves.’

  Leonard sneered. ‘We’ll help them into a better world all right – the next one.’

  ‘So, you protect Weeks and his project?’

  ‘Working with that idiot Ramsey makes it easy. He listens to all my suggestions and follows them slavishly, because he knows I’m cleverer than he is. I only have to say he wants something, and it happens. I can act as though I’m trying to be helpful, while subverting anything that threatens us.’

  ‘He’s been invaluable,’ said Weeks smugly.

  Leonard glanced at O’Connor on his left and Weeks on his right. ‘Can you keep them here if I give you the gun? I need to get rid of Peters – he’s almost as much of a menace as they are.’

  ‘We’ll keep them quiet,’ said Weeks confidently, as O’Connor pulled a long, thin knife out of a cabinet. ‘Hand me the gun.’

  As Leonard reached over to pass Weeks the pistol, Lonsdale groped for his own revolver. Without taking it out of his pocket, he pulled the trigger. The bullet shattered the strengthened glass of the window and everybody in the room froze.

  ‘Down,’ yelled Lonsdale to Hulda, dropping behind a desk and pulling out the gun. But before she could react, O’Connor grabbed her hair and thrust the knife against her throat.

  ‘She’ll be dead within seconds,’ he hissed.

  ‘So will you,’ said Lonsdale, levelling the gun at him from behind the desk.

  ‘Which makes three,’ said Leonard, aiming at Lonsdale. He spoke urgently. ‘Kill her now, Sorenson, and they’ll both be dead before Peters gets here. I’ll clear everything.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Weeks. ‘I have an MP visiting tomorrow, and I don’t want a mess on the Turkish rug he gave us.’ He stepped in front of Leonard to reach O’Connor, and in that instant Lonsdale fired again. The bullet hit O’Connor’s right shoulder and he dropped both the knife and his hold on Hulda.

  Leonard shoved Weeks, sending him sprawling to the floor, and then leapt at Lonsdale over the desk. Lonsdale tried to re-aim, but Leonard landed on him, knocking the pistol away. In a moment, Leonard had jammed his knee onto Lonsdale’s chest and grabbed his throat with a two-handed grip. They struggled for a moment before Leonard’s vice-like clamp began to suffocate Lonsdale. Disobeying the instinct to pull the hands away, Lonsdale let go of Leonard’s wrists, and swung with all his remaining strength up into his groin. The policeman screeched, released Lonsdale, and fell on top of him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Peters shouted, as he raced into the room, brushing by Weeks at the door and looking around wildly. The first thing he saw was Hulda, skirt awry and pointing a huge revolver at O’Connor, who was groaning and bleeding profusely. The second was Lonsdale, who pushed out from underneath Leonard, grabbed the chief inspector’s left arm, and brought it up behind his back. Two constables who had momentarily detained Weeks let him go as they came to help their superior.

  ‘Leonard is one of them, Peters,’ shouted Hulda. ‘Weeks is escaping! Get him!’

  ‘Now, Miss Friederichs,’ said Peters, infuriatingly slow on the uptake, ‘put down that gun. Constable, see to the chief inspector.’

  ‘It’s true, Peters,’ Lonsdale said, breathing heavily. ‘Leonard is one of them.’

  ‘Arrest them, George,’ Leonard gasped. ‘They shot Sorenson, then tried to kill me.’ He began to reach for his gun.

  ‘Don’t move, Leonard,’ said Hulda, pointing her gun at him.

  ‘Miss Friederichs!’ shouted Peters. ‘Disarm! Let me sort this out.’

  ‘No,’ she shouted frantically. ‘Lonsdale! Don’t let Weeks escape!’

  Lonsdale tore from the room. An open door at the far end of the corridor told him which way Weeks had gone. He leapt down the narrow spiral stairs beyond, three at a time. At the bottom was another door. He burst through it and found himself in a long, cold room lined with shelves. He didn’t pause to look at the dozens and dozens of glass jars, but plunged forward, and into what was apparently a dissecting area. A man sat at a bench, chopping something up on a piece of white polished marble; he did not look up as Lonsdale raced past.

  Then Lonsdale was outside, exiting through the now unlocked door they had seen earlier at the rear of the building. Weeks was nowhere to be seen. Lonsdale dashed to the gate, but it was locked. There was no other way out, so he could only assume that Weeks was doing what he himself had already done – climbing through someone else’s garden. He pulled himself up onto the wall he had scaled earlier, just in time to see Weeks disappearing over the one beyond it.

  He leapt off the wall, and ran across the neighbouring garden. The next wall was high, but his running start helped him reach the top and haul himself over. What he saw from the top filled him with horror.

  The ‘garden’ surrounded a gaping hole with silvery lines at the bottom, and the house to which it was attached was just an empty façade. It was the Metropolitan Line’s vent, through which underground trains ridded themselves of excess steam. There was a maintenance ladder attached to the side, down which Weeks was climbing.

  Lonsdale heard a yell from behind and saw Peters and his men were running after him. He could not wait for them to catch up. Weeks had boasted about his supporters, and if he was not caught now, pressure would be brought on the police to abandon the search. He jumped off the wall and raced to the ladder. Weeks was almost at the bottom, and Lonsdale saw him drop the last few feet and disappear into the tunnel. Placing one hand on the rusty metal, Lonsdale swung down.

  The ladder groaned, and he felt it ease away from the wall. Frantically, he grabbed at the rim of the pit, but then it steadied, and, knowing it had held Weeks, he began to climb down. One rung disintegrated under his feet, so that, for a moment, he was suspended by his hands. His feet scrabbled for the next rung down.

  He knew that the longer he took to climb down, the greater the distance Weeks would be able to put between them, so he struggled to move faster. He was almost at the bottom when he discovered the last part of the ladder had rusted away completely. Weeks had evidently known it, indicating it was not the first time he had used the thing, but Lonsdale was unprepared. With a screech of tearing metal, he plunged into empty space, still clutching a rusty bar.

  Lonsdale landed with a crash, the stench of engine oil and steam rising about him. From above, he could hear Peters shouting, but the echoes made it impossible to decipher what the inspector was saying. He climbed to his feet, and stared at the black tunnel down which Weeks had vanished. A long way in the distance was a tiny pinprick of light marking Kensington Station. He listened intently for the rumbling of a train, but the tunnel was silent. As he looked down the line, he saw a flicker of light. Weeks had struck a match to illuminate his way – he had been groping his way in the dark, and was not as far ahead as Lonsdale had feared. Now the professor had decided to abandon stealth for speed.

  Lonsdale shot off down the tunnel after him. He could hear the tap of Weeks’s feet and the rasp of his breath. Lonsdale increased his speed, then fell over an uneven tie, bruising his knees and scraping his hands. He lit a match of his own and started to trot, the glow from his tiny light making eerie shadows on the walls.

  ‘Weeks!’ he yelled. ‘You can’t escape!’

  He heard the scientist laugh in derision. Lonsdale continued running, concentrating on the pinprick of light that marked Kensington Station. His breath came in ragged gasps as the foul, stale air of the tunnel choked him. He felt himself grow dizzy, and he stumbled again.

  He forced himself to move on, each step becoming more of an effort. He felt a blast of cooler air on his cheek. He blinked, and saw the lights from the station were a good deal closer now, and that Weeks was not very far ahe
ad of him. He staggered on. And then he noticed the rails beneath his feet beginning to tremble. Glancing back, he saw a great round light. A train! He ran faster, feeling the shaking increasing beneath his feet, and hearing the dull rumble of metal on metal, growing louder and louder.

  Lonsdale ran harder, knowing that to fall now would mean death. The train was lighting the entire tunnel, and there was a shrill whistle from the engine as the driver saw him. It screamed in his ears like a creature from hell. Then he saw one of the alcoves that had been built into the wall for workmen to use when trains went past. As the brakes were applied in a screech that Lonsdale thought would split his skull, he dived into the niche, and the train hurtled past in a shower of sparks.

  He thought he was going to be sick. His lungs were burning, and he fought for breath, clutching at the sooty wall of the alcove as the train thundered past. Then it was gone and, glancing out, he saw a figure emerge from another alcove ahead, and make its way towards the back of the train, which was pulling into the station. Weeks was going to escape after all!

  Lonsdale forced himself forward. Weeks had reached the train, and was climbing up the back. With a shock, Lonsdale saw he planned to lie on the top, and wait until he reached a place where there were no police, when he would calmly climb down. Then he would be free.

  Lonsdale forced himself forward. He was almost there! He reached the back of the train and stretched up, snagging a handful of trouser leg. Weeks kicked backwards, and Lonsdale struggled to hold on. From behind him, he could hear running footsteps. Peters and his men were coming. Then, very slowly, the train began to move. Lonsdale knew that if he did not hold onto Weeks now, he would escape. The police were too far away to help.

  He reached up with his other hand, hanging onto Weeks’s ankle with all his strength as the train began to gather speed. Weeks kicked again and, this time, Lonsdale was unable to maintain his grip. He felt his hand sliding, and then he was down, tumbling onto the track.