The Red Hand of Fury

by R. N. Morris

  It was the voice of a madman.

  There was more to it than that. A quality that unsettled him. Something personal, a malice directed against only him.

  He turned to view the man’s profile. He had the high forehead of an intellectual and wore wire-framed spectacles. His hair was dark and curly with flecks of silver here and there. He was smiling. His eyes shone with a dark glitter.

  The shock of hearing that voice brought everything back.

  ‘I know you.’

  ‘Of course you do. It’s your fault that I’m here.’

  ‘No. If it was down to me you wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Oh? Where would I be?’

  ‘You’d be dead.’

  The other man’s laughter was weightless and empty, like the shaking of a gourd filled with husks. ‘That’s not very nice, Inspector. Not when you consider all that I have done for you.’

  ‘What have you done for me?’

  ‘I gave you the solution.’

  ‘The solution to what?’

  ‘To the mystery.’

  ‘What mystery?’

  ‘The mystery of those poor young men who died, naked and alone.’

  ‘You killed them.’

  ‘No I did not. I was – and remain – most vehemently opposed to their deaths. I am a pacifist now, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Of course you know. I made sure that you did.’

  He was silent now, as he thought about what the man had said.

  The man turned his face towards him. His smile deepened into an expression of loathsome complacency. ‘Go on, say it.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘Say “I don’t understand!” Because you don’t, do you?’

  ‘You killed them. You planted the seeds of their own self-destruction in their minds.’

  ‘No no no! You’ve got it all wrong! I’m very disappointed in you! Did my clues mean nothing to you?’

  ‘The cards?’

  ‘Yes, that was me! Well done. But really, it’s not such a remarkable thing to work out. You were meant to work it out, in fact. I made sure that my fingerprints were on them. And I expect that even you were capable of cracking that elementary numerical code.’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Just stating the number doesn’t prove that you’ve cracked it.’

  ‘It’s a simple numerical cypher, the letters of your name replaced by a number between one and nine. You write the alphabet in a grid, nine across. A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I on one row and then so on, filling the rows until you have assigned every letter to a number. Take the numbers from your name, Timon Medway, and add them up. Eight plus eight equals sixteen. Then, one plus six equals seven.’

  ‘No no no! You’ve got it all wrong! Timon Medway is not my name.’

  ‘Very well. Isaac Newton. Let’s say that you are Isaac Newton. It’s the same. You get the same result.’

  Again the gourd was shaken. ‘That’s better! You see, it’s not too hard. I made sure of that.’

  ‘I see. And why the red hand? What was the significance of the red hand?’

  ‘Can’t you work it out?’

  ‘It has something to do with the UVF?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Ulster Volunteer Force.’

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘We were pursuing a line of enquiry that the deaths were something to do with the struggle for independence in Ireland.’

  ‘Oh dear. It’s not that at all. No, the red hand is there, Inspector, simply because I like the picture. I find it speaks to me. And I hoped it would speak to you.’

  ‘So it has no significance?’

  ‘Everything has significance, Inspector. The red hand had a twofold significance. In the first place, it was there to protect them. It is a symbol of strength and fury, is it not? And by writing my number, the number seven, on the reverse, I had imbued it with magical properties. It became a talisman, if you will.’

  ‘It didn’t work.’

  ‘Not in its primary function, alas. But there was always a chance that the magic would not be powerful enough. I knew that. I’m not a fool. Which was why I gave it a secondary significance. You worked out the letters of course?’

  ‘J.S.U. stands for Jeova Sanctus Unus. Isaac Newton’s alchemical pseudonym.’

  ‘My pseudonym, you mean! What about the F?’

  It was a question he could not answer.

  ‘Oh, Inspector! I’m disappointed in you!’

  ‘Force?’

  ‘Don’t guess! Why would it be force? It makes no sense. The rest of it is Latin. Why would that one word be English? Come on! Use your brain! I know it’s small and ineffectual, but I know you, Inspector Quinn. You’re not uneducated. You once studied medicine, did you not? There are many Latin words in medicine I believe.’

  ‘It’s Latin?’

  ‘“It’s Latin”, he says. You’re such a dullard these days, Silas.’

  ‘My Latin is a little rusty.’

  ‘I will help you out then. What do they all have in common? The ones who died?’

  ‘They all were here, in Colney Hatch?’

  ‘Oh, Inspector Silas! Can you really be so very stupid? Have you forgotten already what the other letters stand for?’

  ‘You. They stand for you.’

  ‘Quite so. So, try again. Show your working out. You will get marks for that.’

  ‘The F represents, somehow, a link, a relationship, between you and the young men who died.’

  ‘Better! Now … The young men who died. I’ll ask you again, what did they have in common?’

  ‘They were all naked?’

  ‘Don’t try to be too clever, Inspector! It doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘They were all … young men.’

  ‘That’s it. He’s got it. Young men, yes. They were all my …?’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Friends? That’s not a Latin word! The Latin for friend is amicus. If I had wanted to say they were my friends I would have written A.J.S.U. Amicus Jeovae Sancti Uni. I said instead F.J.S.U. Is your knowledge of Latin really so lamentable?’

  ‘This hasn’t been an easy time for me. I …’

  ‘Don’t make excuses! I didn’t summon you here so that you could make excuses. I need you to be stronger than that. A Latin word beginning with F that expresses a relationship of one male to another. Is it really so hard?’

  ‘Filius.’

  ‘At last! Yes! They were my sons.’

  ‘In what sense were they your sons?’

  ‘I had adopted them. So you must see that I would never have caused their deaths.’

  Silas closed his eyes, wishing the other man into oblivion. His presence there next to him on the bench was suddenly an unbearable persecution. And he was overwhelmed by a sense of futility. His whole life had been leading to a moment of utter absurdity.

  He must salvage something from it. ‘Who were they? We know the identity of only one of them. Malcolm Grant-Sissons.’

  ‘Your brother.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Malcolm told me.’

  ‘Is that why you killed him?’

  ‘I told you, I was not responsible. And I also told you, he was my son. I adopted him. Which means that we must be related too, you and I. We’re family now.’

  ‘Who were the others?’

  ‘Don’t you know? I would have thought that was relatively straightforward to discover. All you would have to do is apply to the asylum authorities.’

  ‘We did that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The information was not forthcoming.’

  ‘Could you not insist?’

  ‘I was warned off by my superiors.’

  ‘And that did not make you wonder?’

  It was galling to be the brunt of a child murderer’s righteous indignation.

  ‘You don’t deserve to know their identities. You gave up at the first hurdle.’

  ‘T
here are some things you cannot fight.’

  ‘But those are the very things you must fight!’

  He looked again at the man next to him. A messianic glint burnt in his eyes. For all that he knew about this man, his personality was strangely seductive. He could see how others could be persuaded to believe in his reformation.

  ‘What did it tell you? The fact that they blocked your investigation?’

  ‘They were protecting Colney Hatch?’

  ‘Yes, but why would they do that?’

  ‘Because Dr Pottinger asked them to. He has friends in high places.’

  ‘But why would he ask them to, unless …’

  ‘He had something to hide?’

  ‘Don’t you see? The state killed them. My sons. Your brother. The state murdered them and attempted to cover it up. And you let them get away with it.’

  ‘I have to trust those who are in authority over me. And besides …’

  ‘You thought I was responsible?’

  It seemed almost bad manners to insist on that now. ‘I spoke to Ralph Clarke. He told me that you are capable of getting anyone to do anything.’

  ‘Did he also tell you how he used to molest the female patients that he hypnotized? It was I who caught him at it. He bears me a grudge.’

  ‘You murdered children.’

  ‘No! I saved them. I saved them from the misery and disappointment and corruption of this world.’

  ‘You murdered children.’ Silas insisted on it.

  Timon Medway gave a deep sigh. ‘I see that we must agree to disagree on this point. There is something far more important at stake here. We must put aside our difficulties for the greater good.’

  ‘What on earth can you mean?’

  ‘We must work together, Inspector. To stop them. That’s why I brought you here, after all. The cards were designed to draw you to me.’

  There was a long moment while he thought how to respond. ‘Tell me who they were and I will help you.’

  ‘First there was Harold. Harold Walker. He died in the bear pit. There was very little wrong with him when he came here. Except that he was an orphan. His family had been killed in a gas explosion while he was at work. Mother, father and three junior siblings. The experience had a somewhat shattering effect on his nerves. He became understandably morose and unreliable and as a consequence lost his employment. He had not the means to keep up the rent on the family home, nor even to bury his family. He was nineteen years old when the accident happened. It was a lot for a young man to contend with. I tried to help him as much as I could. But I knew that he was doomed. I saw what they did to him.’

  ‘What did they do to him?’

  ‘They sought to embolden him.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Medway raised a hand, urging patience.

  ‘Next came Cedric. Sad Cedric. Cedric Glynn, that is. The young man who threw himself off Suicide Bridge. Another orphan, of course. They always pick orphans. The truly lost and forgotten, whom no one visits. Cedric lost his mother to consumption and his father to alcoholism. He had looked for the answer in religion. But had taken it too far. Angels spoke to him. And God, and the Devil, of course. The usual suspects. The voices became confused in his head. He was no longer able to distinguish good from evil, God from the other one. He became fearful of doing anything at all and was reduced to a virtually catatonic state. Malcolm you know about. Another orphan. Although he was not entirely alone in the world, was he? He had you. But you had abandoned him.’

  ‘That isn’t fair.’

  ‘Like many mortals, you are weak and cannot bear the truth.’

  ‘What about the other one? The one who fell off Nelson’s Column?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Peter. Poor Peter. Peter Clement was not an orphan, but he might as well have been. His family had abandoned him. Cast him out like a leper. And why? What was his sin? To have loved. We cannot choose where the heart will lead us. We can only open ourselves up to love. And Peter opened himself up all right. He was what some would call a pansy. His family run a butcher’s shop in Highbury. Very respectable. Very stupid. Can you imagine how disgusting the smell of butchered meat must have been to a young man of delicate sensibilities? At any rate, he was discovered in flagrante delicto with a friend. Perhaps it was the sight of all those sausages every day that did it to him. Who can tell? His brute of a father threw him out. He did it quite literally, and publicly. Picked him up by his collar and the belt of his trousers and hurled him out into the street. Well, it wasn’t long before Peter was destitute. He was forced to sell his arse to keep a roof over his head. That brought him to the attention of the authorities. Oafs like you. After serving a six-month prison sentence, he appealed to his father. You would have thought with a name like Clement … Alas, the old man was more hard-hearted than he was before. He simply looked through his son as if he wasn’t there. It was up to his mother to say, “You’d better go. And mind you don’t come back again.” His own mother turned her back on him. That was worse somehow than the father. Worse even than a brother, which was what Malcolm had to endure with you.’

  He didn’t have the energy to protest.

  ‘He fell apart completely. A total nervous collapse. Destitute, distraught, deranged, he was eventually brought here. Mr and Mrs Clement were informed. They wrote back to Pottinger. Words to the effect, We have no son by that name. Very sad for Peter. But Dr Leaming rubbed his hands with glee.’

  ‘Dr Leaming? What about him?’

  ‘Dr Leaming wanted him for his programme.’

  ‘What programme?’

  ‘Dr Leaming is conducting an experimental programme, the purpose of which is to eradicate fear.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Leaming has a theory – and as far as it goes it is a perfectly valid theory. It’s certainly better than Pottinger’s tonsil theory. According to Leaming, all nervous and mental disorders have a single cause. Fear. If you can eradicate fear, you will be able to cure every conceivable mental illness. Dr Leaming is not a bad man. He is much worse. He is an idealist. And like all idealists he is dangerous. He has no conception of the rule of unintended consequences. Even now, after four deaths, he won’t accept that it has anything to do with the work he is doing.’

  ‘How does the state fit into this? Why would they protect Leaming and Pottinger? Why wouldn’t they just close down the programme?’

  ‘Not everyone who has been on the programme has died. There have been some spectacular successes. News of these reached certain individuals in the War Office.’

  ‘Sir Michael Esslyn!’

  ‘That I cannot say. At any rate, there is a war coming, you know. Or haven’t you heard? Our government has been preparing for it for longer than you know. Imagine the usefulness of an army of fearless soldiers. It would be the ultimate secret weapon.’

  ‘How do you know so much about this?’

  ‘Because … I work with Leaming on the programme.’

  ‘So it’s true then? What Ralph Clarke said? You hypnotize them?’

  ‘I told you, you can’t believe him. I don’t do anything. They use me. Leaming uses me. I’m like a tool in his hands. A therapeutic tool.’

  ‘What is it you do?’

  ‘Nothing. Very little. Barely anything.’ Medway sniggered unpleasantly. For the first time in their conversation, something of the monster Silas knew him to be revealed itself.

  ‘But you’re an inmate?’

  ‘The patients help out with all manner of tasks here. There are those who work on the farm. Or in the dairy. Yes, we have a number of dairy cows, as well as pigs and over two hundred head of sheep. We farm chickens for their eggs and meat. There are the crops to sow and harvest, the wheat, the potatoes, all manner of vegetables. And then there’s our orchard. Then again, some of us work in the kitchens. We have a print shop – which was where I had the cards done up, by the way. And a tailoring workshop. A carpentry shop. A hairdresser. An upholsterer. We even have a tattoo parlour, wh
ich I can personally recommend. I myself work in the gardens, as well as helping Dr Leaming with his programme. Without the involvement of patients, this place could not function.’

  ‘Yes, but to employ you in their treatment? A lunatic treating lunatics?’

  The other man shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to do it. I had no choice. At first, I will admit, I believed in Leaming’s ideas. I shared his ideals. But you know I am a pacifist now. When I learnt that the programme was being sponsored by the War Office, I determined to subvert it from within. And now, after what has happened to my boys, I cannot permit it to continue. And I need your help to stop it.’

  Silas looked at the other man and wondered if he could trust him. In the context of a tale told in the garden of a lunatic asylum on a pleasant sunny afternoon, what Timon Medway had told him made perfect sense. But the only thing he knew for sure about Medway was that he was insane. If he held on to that one certainty, he could trust nothing that the man ever said.

  It was almost as if Medway had read his mind. ‘Besides, I cannot be held responsible for any of this. I am insane, remember.’

  The gourd full of husks was given one final shake.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The life that he had thought to be just a dream turned out to be real after all.

  He began to take a more conscious note of his surroundings. He noticed the permanent odour of ammonia that hung in the air, masking other scents that were even more unpleasant.

  He could now taste the food that was given to him, although he might have wished he couldn’t. For the most part, it was shockingly bad. He could well believe that it was prepared by lunatics.

  They received three meals a day, seated on benches at long bare tables in the vast patients’ dining hall. It required four sittings, segregated by sex, to serve everyone. The staff ate in their own dining room. Presumably they were served different meals.

  In the morning the porridge was lumpy and cold, almost impossible to swallow. The bread was more palatable, and there was always jam and butter to spread on it. It still required a lot of chewing. He washed them both down with over-sweetened cocoa. They were also offered half a pint of beer with breakfast. It was held to have a calming effect on some of the patients, although too much made others unruly. Silas invariably left his untouched. There was always someone to drink it for him.