The Red Hand of Fury

by R. N. Morris

  He remembered breaking the news to her, that they had found another body, or rather more body parts. And that they believed them to be those of her missing son.

  Her grief was the most shocking and dramatic display of emotion that Quinn had ever witnessed. He found it hard to imagine her ever recovering from it. And he had no doubt that she was not acting at that moment.

  How many more children Medway would have gone on to murder if they had not caught up with him was difficult to say. His voluntary admission to Colney Hatch Asylum had possibly curtailed his killing spree. Perhaps he had done enough to prove whatever insane theorem he was pursuing. Or perhaps he merely intended to lie low until the investigation was suspended and it was safe to resume his activities. If he had been allowed to continue, the pattern that the first three victims suggested would either have been confirmed or unravelled completely.

  Like many of the most prolific killers that Quinn had encountered, Medway seemed to flirt with the idea of his own capture. A part of it was the desire to be recognized as the author of the terrible deeds that had shaken society. This class of criminal would often deliberately leave clues taunting the police, confident that their adversaries were too stupid to solve them.

  In Medway’s case, the clues were mathematical. Or, as it turned out, New Mathematical, which is to say nonsensical. He had written to the London Mathematical Society revealing details about the crimes that were known only to the police and the murderer. The letters contained some of the calculations from Principia Mathematica Nova and were signed Jeova Sanctus Unus, which Quinn subsequently learnt had been Isaac Newton’s alchemical pseudonym.

  The writer of the letters demanded that they be published in the society’s journal, otherwise there would be more murders. The London Mathematical Society had passed the letters on to Quinn, who had advised them to publish the mathematical parts of the letters, leaving out anything connected to the murders. He also encouraged the head of the society to manufacture a specious academic dispute with the writer of the pseudonymous letters, not only pointing out supposed mistakes in the calculations, but also attacking their theoretical basis and questioning the author’s mathematical competence in no uncertain terms. An important part of this attack was the assertion that no serious mathematician could be found who would give the theories outlined any credence whatsoever.

  This was enough to draw Timon Medway out. He wrote in his own name, giving his credentials as Senior Wrangler and indeed as a prominent fellow of the society, defending the mathematical calculations submitted. Although Medway’s letter was typewritten and the Jeova Sanctus Unus letters were handwritten, there were enough stylistic similarities between them to arouse suspicion. Besides, Quinn had also ensured that crucial mathematical details were omitted when the letter was published. Medway could not help revealing his knowledge of these omissions in his refutation and accusing the editor of butchering the elegance of the original calculations. It seemed certain that Jeova Sanctus Unus and Timon Medway were one and the same person.

  Medway had assumed that countless other members would flood the society with letters of support. There were none forthcoming but his own.

  Perhaps he realized his mistake as soon as the letter was sent, because he soon after made sure of his admission to Colney Hatch, laying the ground for a plea of insanity.

  ‘Well, here’s something,’ said Macadam, with that self-conscious restraint that heralded great excitement.

  ‘He’s listed?’

  ‘Not Grant-Sissons, as far as I can tell. There is no one listed as residing at St John’s Passage. However, one member gives his address as The Asylum, Friern Barnet Road, Colney Hatch.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Yes. And he gives his name as Unus, J.S.’

  ‘Jeova Sanctus Unus. Timon Medway.’

  ‘It must be.’

  Quinn felt the pieces falling into place. ‘The cards. The letters on the back of the cards. F.J.S.U. We have, I think, the J, the S, and the U. And seven. The number seven was of great significance to Medway, I seem to remember. It was the age of all his victims. And …’ Quinn broke off to leaf through the Medway file. ‘There was something else. Mumbo jumbo. Nonsense. But it seemed to mean a lot to Medway. The way he used to add things up to arrive at a number. Here it is. The numbers of his date of birth, twenty-five plus twelve plus one thousand eight hundred and seventy-eight. Add them together and you get one thousand nine hundred and fifteen. One plus nine plus one plus five is sixteen. One plus six is seven. It was the same with the letters of his name. There is a way of giving them numbers. If you do it, it adds up to seven. Same with Jeova Sanctus Unus, which was an anagram of Isaac Newton’s name in Latin. It’s all nonsense, as I say. But Medway believed in it. As far as he was concerned, the number seven had magical significance. I wouldn’t be surprised if we discover that the thumbprint on the cards belongs to Timon Medway. Inchball …’

  ‘I took the liberty of calling in at the forensic lab on my way to the records archive. I told them to look into it.’

  ‘We will await the result of the fingerprint analysis. In the meantime, I suggest we pay a visit on the secretary of the Fellowship of the Gracchi. I have one or two questions I would like to put to him.’ Quinn rose from his seat decisively. ‘Macadam, will you drive us?’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Quinn felt the Model T’s familiar vibrations throb comfortingly in his bones as he settled back in the seat beside Macadam.

  It felt good to be driven by Macadam again.

  Quinn knew that the responsibility for any distance that had grown between him and his men was entirely his. He had not trusted them with the truth about his past. He had deliberately kept them out of his confidence, allocating them spurious tasks to divert them from the real investigation.

  If he were called to account for his conduct so far, he would be able to justify every decision. In any investigation, one can never know for sure what leads might arise and where they might take you. It paid to cast the net as wide as possible. Admittedly, with a core of three men, this meant that resources were inevitably spread thin.

  All this might have fooled his superiors, but it did not fool him.

  He had known where the investigation was heading as soon as he saw the first brown corduroy suit.

  He had underestimated his men. And his decision to keep his knowledge of the suits to himself may even have hampered the investigation.

  When Timon Medway’s name came up, he had not been surprised. As soon as a link with Colney Hatch was established in his mind, he had thought of the notorious child murderer. Had he known all along that Medway was behind the deaths? If so, why had he kept quiet? Was it possible that he was being controlled remotely by Medway in the same way that the dead men had been?

  It was impossible, absurd. It was over five years since he had seen Medway, who had been locked up in the asylum all that time. But Medway was highly manipulative. Perhaps he had agents who were at liberty and acting on his behalf. Could one of them have somehow influenced Quinn’s behaviour without his knowing? He remembered the Blackley case. Benjamin Blackley had hired the services of a man called Yeovil in an attempt to manipulate and control the behaviour of his employees. Quinn had seen some evidence that Yeovil possessed the abilities he claimed.

  The car moved inexorably along the London streets, weaving in and out of the traffic. Macadam was handy with the horn today. Every plodding dray cart, every dawdling omnibus or stalled motor had him reaching for the rubber bulb.

  Quinn understood his sergeant’s impatience, and he knew that in part it was for his benefit. Macadam was as eager to serve as ever. But there was a part of Quinn that didn’t want the journey to end. It was taking him closer to the solution to the case. But it was also taking him closer to Timon Medway.

  W.G. Portman lived on Westbourne Park Villas, in a modest house facing the railway tracks. There were four steps up to the front door, and a primitive pediment above it. Even so, it lacked the gr
andiose portico of some of its more pretentious neighbours.

  The door was opened by a young woman in a loose-flowing dress. She was pretty and slim and at ease with herself. She arrived at the door still glowing with the excitement and hilarity of the conversation she had just come from. Her smile faded as she saw the three stern men before her, arranged awkwardly on receding steps. A look of mild curiosity quickly darkened at the sight of Quinn’s warrant card.

  ‘Mrs Portman?’

  ‘No … not exactly.’

  ‘This is the home of Mr W.G. Portman, is it not?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Is Mr Portman at home?’

  A muffled voice cried out from the depths of the house, male, with a distinct Midlands accent. ‘Who the Devil is it, Reg?’

  She invited their indulgence with a colluding smile, which seemed to be at the expense of the shouting man. ‘Would you care to come in? I’ll take you through. We’re in the garden. There’s lemonade. It would be delightful if you could join us.’

  It was typical of these people, thought Quinn, by which he meant people of her class, the way she took the initiative and turned the situation around to her advantage. It was no longer an unwelcome intrusion. It was an invitation graciously extended. As if she would be personally offended if these three policemen did not come in and interrogate her lover.

  She led them along a narrow corridor, into the kitchen, which was in a state of scandalous disarray. Several days’ worth of dirty pots were spread over every surface, the plates littered with cheese rinds, orange peel and shrivelled grapes. There were ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, empty wine bottles and smeared glasses still containing the dregs of last night’s binge. The air was sour and vinegary.

  Their feet crunched over a layer of breadcrumbs strewn like sawdust on the floor.

  ‘Forgive the mess. Willy won’t have servants, even though he can afford it. He says it’s against his socialist principles. And doing his housework for him is against mine. So …’ Her smile distracted them from the sordidness of the surroundings. ‘He says that in the future there will be machines to wash dishes. I suppose we’ll just have to wait for that.’

  A door from the kitchen led out into a small shaded garden.

  Portman sat at a circular garden table in a collarless shirt, his sleeves rolled up. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, adorned with flowers. It was a woman’s hat, or possibly the sort worn by donkeys once holes had been cut for the ears. Portman appeared utterly unabashed. He stared up at them with a look of bullish amusement, as if he were aware of his own absurdity but challenged them to make something of it.

  ‘Hello, hello, hello. Who have we here?’

  ‘It’s the police,’ announced Reg, raising her brows warningly.

  ‘Yes, I sort of surmised that. Hence my … joke.’

  Reg frowned uneasily. ‘Shall I fetch some more glasses?’ She answered her own question by disappearing back inside. Quinn could hear her sorting through the pots and debris of the kitchen.

  ‘Were you expecting the police?’ wondered Quinn.

  ‘Not at all. It’s just … you have that look about you.’

  Suddenly Quinn had the sensation that he had met Portman before. It was always possible.

  ‘You are W.G. Portman?’

  ‘I confess!’ Portman held out his arms with his wrists together. ‘Cuff me. Lock me up. Throw away the key. I am indeed that dreadful sinner who goes by the name of Wilfred George Portman.’

  ‘And you are the secretary of the Fellowship of the Gracchi?’

  ‘Ah, so that’s what this is all about? Old Manley Adams did warn me to watch out for a visit from the boys in blue. You think I’ll tell you what he wouldn’t?’

  Quinn blinked away the question. ‘Do you know a young man called Malcolm Grant-Sissons?’ He took out the photograph of Malcolm that he had retrieved from Grant-Sissons’ house.

  Portman shook his head. ‘Never seen the fellow.’

  ‘He is not a member of the Gracchi, as far as we know. This has nothing to do with that. You will not be betraying any confidences. We believe he was an admirer of your books.’

  ‘As am I, if I may say so,’ put in Macadam, who immediately blushed and looked abashed.

  ‘So I take it that in itself is not a crime? If a policeman admits to it.’

  Quinn looked at the picture of Malcolm for a moment before returning it to his pocket. ‘Malcolm died as the result of a terrible accident at Bankside Power Station. He was reading your novel, A Furious Energy, around the time of his death. The story, as you will know, is centred around the theme of electricity.’

  Portman winced. ‘Electricity is not the theme, Inspector.’

  Quinn wondered how the author knew his rank. Perhaps they had met before, after all.

  ‘Electricity is a metaphor. Power is the theme. Its uses and abuses. Did you read the book?’

  ‘I haven’t finished it yet.’

  ‘I have,’ said Macadam, eagerly.

  ‘At any rate, I’m afraid I don’t quite follow your drift. This fellow was reading my book. And then he had an accident. What of it? I am not on intimate terms with every single one of my readers.’ Portman shuddered deliberately. ‘Heaven forfend.’

  ‘No, of course not. We must look into everything, you understand. Is it not the case that sometimes readers write letters of appreciation to authors they admire? Particularly young readers. Malcolm was a young man. And somewhat disturbed in his mind. If he did write to you, such a letter might help us to better understand his state of mind when he died.’

  ‘You think he sent me his suicide note?’

  ‘You know that he killed himself, I see.’

  ‘I had read about the incident. It was of a piece with those other deaths. The men all remove their clothes before killing themselves. I can assure you that I received no letters from anyone concerning such matters.’

  Just then, Reg returned with three smeared and mismatched glasses, which she set down on the garden table as quietly and unobtrusively as she could.

  ‘Does the name Timon Medway mean anything to you?’

  ‘Timon Medway?’

  Quinn noticed the change in Portman’s demeanour. Beneath the brim of his hat, his face was suddenly drained of colour. He noticed, too, a complex look pass between Portman and Reg. But as yet he did not have enough information to interpret its meaning.

  ‘I read about that case too. It was in all the newspapers. As were you, Inspector Quinn.’

  So that was it. His celebrity went before him. ‘Are you aware that Timon Medway is a member of the Fellowship of the Gracchi? He goes by the name of Jeova Sanctus Unus and gives his address as the Colney Hatch asylum.’

  ‘Yes. I knew it was he. Anyone who kept up the accounts of his trial will have known of his pseudonym.’

  ‘It does not trouble you that such an individual is a member of your organization? Doesn’t it rather undermine your pacifist ideals?’

  ‘Because he is a murderer?’

  ‘A man of violence, yes.’

  ‘What is it that it says in the Bible? I am myself an atheist, you understand. Nonetheless, the Bible is a marvellous source of quotations. There is more rejoicing in Heaven over one sinner who repents … isn’t that how it goes?’

  ‘You think he has repented? From what I know of Timon Medway, that is highly unlikely.’

  ‘I don’t concern myself with his past. If he shares our political ideals now, that is good enough for me.’

  ‘I wonder if the parents of his victims would say the same?’

  ‘You will have to ask them that question.’ There was a strange tension in Portman’s face. His jaw was gripped in anger. Reg must have noticed it too, for she went over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder to relax him.

  Portman sighed. ‘It is hard, sometimes, I admit, having principles. Sometimes, one principle comes in conflict with another. It’s true, I’m not a Christian. But I do believe in forgiveness, p
erhaps more than any Christian since the man himself. Not to compare myself to the Son of God – I don’t share that delusion with Timon.’

  ‘Timon? You call him Timon?’

  ‘Yes, I make no secret of it. I have corresponded with him. I have even visited him in Colney Hatch.’

  ‘Why?’ Quinn could not keep his horror out of his voice.

  ‘I am a writer, Inspector. My stock in trade is character. Timon Medway is the most extraordinary character of our age. Is it not natural that I would want to study him up close?’

  ‘He is a heartless murderer of children.’

  ‘Oh, he has a heart. And it pumps blood around his body as any other man’s does. And besides, he can’t kill any children where he is now. There are none there. And he is watched ever so closely.’

  ‘It is not for you to forgive him.’

  ‘Very well, let us not use that word. Forgiveness. It is too fraught with scripture. But society must find a way to rehabilitate men like Timon Medway. No good is served by his continued incarceration.’

  ‘Children are protected. Lives are saved. I would count that as a good.’

  ‘But if we could find a way to excise from him the murderous impulse, as a surgeon excises a tumour! He is an extraordinarily talented man. One of the greatest intellects I have ever encountered. He has devised a whole new system of mathematics, you know? We are depriving the world of his talents while he festers in that place.’

  ‘I will gladly forego such talents as his.’

  ‘We must accept that he was sick when he did what he did to those children. Mad, not bad. The efforts of the psychiatric profession should be directed to curing him. It is not enough to simply contain him. That is a failure.’

  ‘But how could we ever be sure that he is cured?’