The Red Hand of Fury

by R. N. Morris

  ‘Is this what this has been all about? This is why you drew me here?’

  ‘You will never leave this place alive, Quinn.’

  Silas recognized the silver whistle which Medway now produced from a pocket. ‘Listen to me carefully, listen very carefully. When I blow this whistle, you will remain exactly where you are. You will not attempt to move. You will not attempt to escape.’

  The piercing note of the whistle drowned out the birdsong. Medway kept the blast going for what could have been a full minute. And even when he threw the whistle down, Silas felt his eardrums thrumming.

  He heard shouts coming from the direction of the asylum building. When he next looked, Medway was nowhere to be seen.

  In truth, Silas had no intention of making a run for it. He found Medway’s half-baked attempt to hypnotize him – if that’s what it was – deeply irritating. Of course, he would wait for the orderlies. He was a police officer.

  Medway’s plan to incriminate him was risible. It could only have been conceived by a madman who had spent too much time in the company of other lunatics. No sensible person would entertain it for a moment.

  At fifty yards he recognized the two orderlies running towards him as the men who had taken him down in the greenhouse yesterday. He had never seen them except in Mr Ince’s company.

  As they drew level with the pump house, he watched their expressions change from alert trepidation to dawning horror.

  ‘You’ve done it now,’ said one of them, a young man with flaring acne. The other one, tall, thin and red-haired, glared with angry conviction at Silas.

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘There’s blood on your hands,’ pointed out the red-headed one.

  ‘I had to turn him over. As you can see, he’s covered in blood. It must have happened then.’

  ‘And your hand’s injured. There.’ The two orderlies took it in turns to display their stupidity.

  ‘This is ridiculous. Medway did this. Timon Medway.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He was here a moment ago. He blew the whistle.’

  ‘Mr Ince’s whistle.’ The whistle had landed close to Ince’s body.

  ‘I suppose it must be. Look, I can’t have killed Mr Ince, I was locked up in a cell. You know that.’

  ‘But you got out.’

  ‘How did you get out?’

  ‘Someone opened my cell door.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Who would do that?’

  ‘Mr Ince’s keys were in the door,’ Silas explained. ‘Which suggests he was dead already and his keys taken off him.’

  ‘Or Mr Ince let you out, you overpowered him and killed him and left him here.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t make any sense. Why would Mr Ince let me out?’

  ‘Because he felt sorry for you,’ said the red-head.

  Even his spotty mate looked sceptical at this. ‘Maybe not that. We all know what he was like. Maybe he took it into his head to teach you a lesson. He was going to give you a good whipping with his keys, then you got the better of him.’

  ‘That’s not what happened.’

  ‘That’s what it looks like.’

  ‘To you perhaps. But not to any …’ Silas broke off. He had been about to say ‘sane person’.

  ‘We all know you’ve been on Leaming’s programme. We all know what that does to people.’

  ‘What does it do?’

  ‘It makes you capable of anything. At least, it makes you think you are.’

  Tall Redhead blew on his own alarm whistle. Then the two men seized Silas by the arms, as more attendants ran across the lawn towards them.

  THIRTY-NINE

  He put up no resistance as they walked him back to the padded cell. This would all be cleared up soon, he had no doubt. Though he was not much reassured by the look Tall Redhead gave him when he saw Ince’s chain hanging from the key, as if it somehow proved Silas’s guilt.

  Still, there was nothing else he could do but sit it out.

  An hour later the cell door opened again. The same two orderlies came in. ‘You’re to come with us,’ Angry Acne announced.

  Most of the inmates were up and about now. He detected a strange excitement among the men. The rumour must have got around that the hated Ince was dead. Perhaps they believed that Silas was responsible. There was something celebratory in their evasive glances as he passed them: it could even be a shy admiration. One or two of them balled a fist which they seemed to cradle in the other hand, as if to say: What must it have felt like to land the blow that killed him?

  The orderlies took him to Dr Pottinger’s office. Pottinger was there with Leaming. There, too, were a number of other men. Policemen, by the looks of them. Local coppers, Silas guessed, but his heart bounded to see Sergeant Macadam and Sergeant Inchball in among them.

  There was one other copper there. A man who seemed to be compensating for the smallness of his bald head by growing an enormous drooping moustache.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ The words were out before Silas could calculate the damage they might do.

  Macadam attempted a brave smile. ‘DCI Coddington has taken over the SCD in your absence, sir.’

  This was the greatest lunacy that he had encountered in his time in Colney Hatch. DCI Coddington had been the chief investigating officer in the Blackley case earlier that year. As far as Silas was concerned, the man had proven himself to be a flagrant idiot. But the worst kind of idiot, the sort who thought himself a signally clever fellow. Silas had solved the Blackley case, but it was no thanks to Coddington, who had hampered and irritated him at every turn.

  And of course, the worst thing about the man was the fact that he too wore a herringbone ulster. He had made them both look ridiculous.

  There was only one officer in the whole of the Met who might fall for Timon Medway’s absurd attempt to frame Silas Quinn.

  And that was DCI Coddington.

  ‘Good to see you again, Quinn. I only wish that it were under better circumstances.’ To make sure his point was not missed, Coddington gestured vaguely at their surroundings. As if there was a danger Silas might have forgotten he was an inmate in a lunatic asylum.

  ‘But you know why I’m here, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re here because you suffered a mental collapse.’

  ‘No no no. My sergeants must have briefed you.’

  ‘My sergeants now.’

  ‘I am here on an undercover operation. I am investigating the deaths of four young men at various locations around London. They were all patients here at Colney Hatch, involved in a therapeutic programme run by that man, Dr Charles Leaming.’

  Leaming frowned at being pointed out. He looked down at the floor and shook his head, in dismay rather than denial.

  ‘Did Sir Edward Henry approve this operation?’ demanded Coddington.

  ‘I couldn’t tell him.’ Silas knew how irrational this made him sound, even as he was saying it.

  Coddington smoothed the ample whiskers of his moustache. ‘So this was an unauthorized operation?’

  Silas remembered how much he hated the man. ‘I authorized it. That was all the authorization it needed. Macadam, Inchball … tell him.’

  But Coddington held up a restraining hand. ‘I have already spoken to Sergeants Macadam and Inchball. They have told me all about the details of your … plan.’ Coddington gave the word contemptuous emphasis. ‘They have also told me of their own reluctance to go along with it and their fears for your sanity. I must say I agree with them. Anyone who thought this was a feasible plan of action really does need their head examining.’ Coddington’s moustache was momentarily exercised by his mirth.

  ‘It was the only way I could get in here without arousing suspicion. And it allowed me to discover what was happening here from the inside.’

  ‘Hadn’t Sir Edward forbidden you from pursuing this line of enquiry?’

  ‘That was exactly why I had to do it this way.’

  ‘You suspect the commiss
ioner of the Metropolitan Police of conspiring to commit a crime?’

  ‘No, it’s not … it’s not Sir Edward. It’s the people who are giving him his instructions. He is acting out of the best motives, as always. It goes without saying. He is a good man.’

  ‘I am sure he will be gratified to hear you say it!’ Coddington’s sarcasm provoked a burst of appreciative laughter. Only Macadam and Inchball shook their heads in disapproval. ‘Let me put to you an alternative hypothesis. Your nerves have always been your weak spot. I am informed that you have been a patient here once before. You have a history of mental derangement. And so your admittance here was not as the result of some clever plan you had cooked up, but because, well, to put it bluntly, you went mad.’

  ‘I was feigning my symptoms.’

  ‘I hear you shat yourself.’

  ‘It was important to make it convincing.’

  ‘Oh, I would say you certainly did that.’ There was more laughter, this time a little muted. ‘But, tell me, why was it so important that you infiltrate the asylum?’

  ‘Timon Medway was here! Timon Medway was the key to it all! In fact, as it turned out, I was right. Timon Medway had deliberately drawn me here. He had given the cards to the men who died. The cards with the red hand. He made me believe that he had drawn me here to help him close down Leaming’s programme. But all the time it was to get his revenge on me. He wanted to frame me for the murder of Mr Ince. He had planned it all along.’

  ‘How very clever of him.’

  ‘You don’t understand. He is very clever.’

  ‘For a lunatic, perhaps.’

  ‘Yes, exactly. For a lunatic. He is clever, but his thinking is often flawed. His arrogance trips him up. He tried to frame me for this attack, but I couldn’t possible have done it. I was locked up in a padded cell.’

  ‘Except that Stanley Ince let you out. You repaid the act by brutally murdering him.’

  ‘No. That’s impossible. You must see!’

  DCI Coddington clearly objected to being told what he must or must not do by Silas Quinn. ‘Must I? What I see is your hand. First there’s the wound. And that’s his blood on your hands. You don’t deny that?’

  ‘I turned the body over. Look, you know it couldn’t have been me. You can’t do this just to pay me back for whatever humiliation you think I may have once subjected you to.’

  ‘Humiliation? You think you could ever humiliate me?’

  ‘Please, you’re making a terrible mistake. This will fall apart in a court. I cannot have killed Ince.’ Silas held up his injured hand. ‘And as for this injury, which seems to be so significant to everyone. Timon Medway caused me to sustain it. It was a foolish, stupid thing … that he encouraged me to do. I punched a slate. I was showing off. I thought it was some kind of game, but I see now it was part of his plan.’

  ‘You punched a slate? Are you mad?’ Coddington waited for the hoots of hilarity from the local coppers. He rolled his moustaches as he basked in their appreciation. ‘Oh, sorry, old chap. I forgot. So, let me see, were there any witnesses to this incident?’

  ‘Henry Hicks.’

  ‘And this Henry Hicks will vouch for you? He will confirm that this is how you sustained the injury on your knuckles?’

  Silas hung his head. ‘I don’t know. He may … we may be able to get him to confirm it. Henry … Henry does not communicate in the normal way. He speaks in a language of his own devising, and only when he chooses to.’

  Coddington made a rather overdone expression of confusion. ‘I beg your pardon? I don’t quite follow your drift.’

  ‘It’s part of his affliction.’

  ‘Ah, I see! A lunatic! It all hangs on the word of a lunatic. Who incidentally does not speak English, if I understand correctly.’ Coddington shook his head incredulously. ‘Very well, bring this mad person, Hicks or whatever his name is. We may as well have one more.’ He turned to his audience, while preening his massive moustaches with anticipatory glee. ‘I don’t doubt it will be entertaining, gentlemen. If not particularly elucidating.’

  An orderly was dispatched to find Henry.

  Silas flashed a desperate appeal towards first Macadam and then Inchball. His two sergeants nodded encouragingly to him. ‘When was Stanley Ince last seen?’

  ‘He completed his shift at five o’clock yesterday afternoon,’ confirmed Dr Pottinger.

  ‘And was he seen leaving the asylum?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘The fact is, the attack could have taken place at any time between five o’clock yesterday, and whatever time it was this morning when I found his body. A post-mortem should be able to give you a more precise time of death. Until you have that, you cannot draw any definite conclusions as to the identity of his murderer. I was in the cell all night. Until just a few minutes before I found the body. I cannot possibly have committed this assault in that time. And who do you think blew the whistle?’

  ‘But we don’t know what time Stanley Ince let you out of the cell,’ objected Coddington. ‘He could have come back at midnight and released you. As for the whistle, that could have been Mr Ince before he died. Or you.’

  ‘How many times do I have to say it? Timon Medway let me out. Timon Medway killed Ince. Timon Medway had Ince’s keys. Timon Medway blew the whistle. Here’s what I think happened. Medway must have stolen some medication, a sedative of some kind. I once saw him behave in a suspicious manner around the meds trolley. Make sure that the pathologist does a toxicology test on the cadaver.’

  ‘I don’t need you to give me lessons in procedure!’ Coddington gave his moustache a complacent pat, as if to say he would rather take advice from his whiskers.

  Silas shook his head impatiently. ‘Medway injected Ince with the stolen sedative and then was able to overpower him. He didn’t beat him with his hands, because his hands were, as far as I could see, undamaged. He might have worn gloves. Gardening gloves, perhaps. He works on the gardening detail. Look for a pair of bloody gardening gloves. He must have discarded them somewhere. Either that or he used some kind of weapon. The medical examination will tell you more.’

  ‘Look, old chap, we all know what this Ince fellow was like. Something of a brute from all accounts. It’s understandable. You lost your temper with him, your mind being unbalanced as it is. A moment of uncontrollable rage. We all get those. You hit him harder than you intended. Perhaps it was even self-defence. A witness has testified that the reason he took you out of the cell was to bully you in some way.’

  ‘No! There is no witness to that! You don’t know the basic difference between speculation and evidence!’ Silas turned first to his own sergeants, then to the other policemen in the room. Surely someone there besides himself could see the man’s incompetence?

  ‘Now now, Quinn. You’re not doing yourself any favours here, losing your temper like this.’

  Just then the door opened.

  The mood in the room changed dramatically when Henry Hicks was led in. The air of jocularity that Coddington’s posturing had encouraged evaporated. Perhaps some of the local coppers were beginning to be persuaded by the points Silas had made. Even so, the fact remained that Coddington was the lead officer. It would take a bold subordinate to stand up to him and bring this farce to an end.

  Henry surveyed the room with the frightened face of a very young child brought before a room full of strange adults. A fresh wound glistened on his cheek.

  Silas tried to reassure him. But he suspected that his own smile was as tense and alarming as a baboon’s rictus. ‘It’s all right, Henry. You’re not in trouble. We just want to ask you a question. About what happened yesterday. You remember yesterday when we were in the greenhouse?’

  Henry gave a tense nod. This was good. If he could communicate without speaking, the chances were they could get an intelligible answer out of him.

  But Silas hadn’t reckoned on Coddington.

  ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa! You’re the bloody suspect here, Quinn! Or have you forgott
en?’

  ‘But … Henry knows me. He doesn’t know you. He’s more likely to speak to me.’

  ‘That’s not how it works, chummy.’

  Henry’s anxious expression flitted between mute appeal and terror, as he glanced from Silas to Coddington.

  Coddington began to address him in a loud voice, as if he believed the underlying cause of all mental illness was deafness. ‘It’s very simple. There’s no need to be afraid. You won’t get into trouble if you tell the truth. Did you go to the greenhouse yesterday?’

  Henry’s head bobbed up and down rapidly, as if the faster he nodded, the sooner the ordeal would be over.

  ‘Who was there?’

  ‘Nyaaaaa …’

  Silas reached out a hand to reassure his friend. ‘It’s all right, Henry.’

  ‘This is hopeless,’ decided Coddington. ‘We’re never going to get any sense out of him.’

  Silas knew that Henry’s difficulty was in articulating his emotions through the spoken word. ‘Henry, could you write down a statement? Would that be easier?’

  A look of relief came over Henry. He nodded excitedly.

  ‘Please,’ said Silas. ‘Can we have a piece of paper and a pen? Can you let him sit down?’

  A space was made at the edge of Pottinger’s desk and Henry was supplied with writing materials.

  He passed his statement to Silas, who had it snatched out of his hands by Coddington.

  A frown settled on Coddington’s face as he read. After he had finished, he avoided looking at Silas.

  Macadam took the statement from Coddington’s limp grasp and read it out:

  ‘I was in the greenhouse with Mr Quinn. We was planting cabbage seeds. You make a hole and then put one seed in each hole. Sometimes I put two in by mistake but Mr Quinn said it doesn’t matter. I like being with Mr Quinn. Then Mr Medway came in. I don’t like being with Mr Medway. He makes me feel all churned up. I don’t know what will happen when Mr Medway is there. Usually something bad happens. Mr Medway makes bad things happen. He had a square and he told Mr Quinn to punch it. I didn’t want Mr Quinn to punch it because it would hurt his hand. But Mr Quinn said it would be all right. Mr Quinn punched the square. There was blood on his hand. Then there was blood on the square. Mr Medway laughed. I don’t like the sound of Mr Medway laughing. It is like mice scratching behind the wall. Then Mr Ince came in and whipped me with his keys and Mr Quinn stopped him. Signed Henry Hicks.’