by R. N. Morris
In his explorations of the esoteric arts he had read about the Alchemical Wedding. This part of his work corresponded to the stage of Nigredo in Alchemy. All the great philosophies were derived from a unified source. That was how he could be sure that his own method was divinely inspired. He had not made it up out of whole cloth. It had been revealed to him, in all likelihood by the Great Lord Set himself.
And so it was important that he should overcome his squeamishness and take strength, as well as delight, from his immersion in degradation and dirt. He was not a natural sodomizer. It was his knowledge of the strength he would gain from the work that aroused him, not the sight of a young man’s buttocks.
The act, the work, required this of him. He would not shrink from it.
‘What do you see?’
The boy frowned earnestly as he tried to make sense of what he was being asked. He shrugged.
‘You see the world remade. Do you understand? The world purged of weakness and fear. A world that has undergone such tumult and mayhem that there is nothing left to fear. Do you know what fear is? Fear is the unknown. If you set yourself to know everything, you will fear nothing. I can take you to a place beyond fear. I will share with you my knowledge, and release you from fear. Come with me now, willingly. Take my hand and the two of us will go together, naked, to a place beyond fear. Will you do that?’
The boy nodded. He held out his hand and allowed himself to be led.
A Visitor to the Department
To look at him, Quinn would not have imagined he was given to the kind of practices undertaken in Green Park at night. With his strong jaw and confident gaze, there was no hint of the degenerate to his person. No flinch of shame. No telltale signs of weakness about his mouth or eyes. His handshake was firm and dry, his stance and features thoroughly masculine.
But as soon as the man opened his mouth, Quinn realized he was listening to the same well-educated voice that had come out of the darkness the night before.
‘I think you know why I’m here, Inspector.’ He handed Quinn a card as he sat down, bowler in hand:
George Bittlestone, Esq.
Investigative Journalist
The Daily Clarion
Fleet Street
‘Let’s not play games with each other. You are investigating the death of a renter. I have information that I believe would be helpful to your investigation. In return for this information, you will share with me what you know, in an exclusive arrangement.’
‘My dear sir . . . My dear –’ Quinn deliberately consulted the card. ‘Mr Bittlestone. It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid. If you have any information about this matter, it’s your duty to pass it on to the police. There can be no question of reciprocation. But kindly note that I have not yet acknowledged the existence of any such investigation. I am curious as to what led you to this department.’
‘It wasn’t hard to track you down. I have friends in the Met. You’d be surprised.’
‘No doubt I would.’
‘And how is your investigation going, Inspector? I must say, I find your methods rather unconventional. Picking up a renter of your own. Then assaulting him and running off to hide in the bushes. But perhaps that’s the sort of thing we should expect from Quick-fire Quinn.’
Quinn glanced guiltily towards his sergeants. The look of aggressive scepticism on Inchball’s face suggested that he was ready to defend his chief’s honour.
‘I was conducting an undercover operation.’
‘And what did you uncover, undercover?’ The arch tone did not go unnoticed by Quinn. It was the first hint he had picked up of the man’s proclivities.
‘For one thing, I witnessed you engage in an act of gross indecency.’
‘Really? My recollection of last night was that I took a walk in Green Park with some friends. It was somewhat dark, I seem to remember. Impenetrably so. I am amazed that you were able to see anything.’
‘I didn’t have to see. I could hear.’
‘Whatever you think you might have heard, Inspector, I rather suspect that you will have a hard time proving beyond reasonable doubt that I was involved in it. And as you will know, it is that question of reasonable doubt that decides the issue of guilt or innocence in any legal trial.’
‘There can be no question of the police granting an exclusive to one newspaper over any other,’ said Quinn, changing tack. ‘Our duty is to protect the public. Therefore, if there is a need to involve the press, we will talk to as many newspapers as possible. We will treat everyone equally and fairly.’
‘Now now, Inspector Quinn. You know that’s not how the world works. The world revolves on the basis of one very simple principle. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. Here we are trying to find out who has the upper hand. You think you have, because you believe you heard some renter frig me last night. Whereas I think I have because I happen to know that your investigation has come to a grinding halt. And I am in possession of a piece of information that could move it forward.’
‘Tell me what you know and you will not face charges over your behaviour last night. You know as well as I do that even to be charged with such an offence would be highly damaging. Especially for you, as a journalist at the Daily Clarion. How would your readers respond? Not to mention your employers. The Clarion in the past has taken rather a hard line against such offenders, I seem to remember.’
‘Are you threatening me with blackmail, Inspector? I am prepared to defend myself against any baseless accusation. I am also prepared to go to press with what I know already. Indeed, I have already written a story which I have left with my editor in a sealed envelope, with instructions to open it if I did not return from this interview. I anticipated that you might take this line.’
‘I see.’
‘Isn’t it better for us to cooperate, Inspector? You show me yours and I’ll show you mine. Figuratively speaking. You then can direct and control the release of information to the public. All I ask is that when the moment comes that the full story may be published, you remember who it was who came to you – voluntarily, I might add – with the identity of the victim.’
‘That is what you have?’
‘That is indeed what I have.’
‘Very well. Who is he? I will remember who told me, do not fear.’
‘His full name is James Albert Neville. Originally from Norfolk. The son of a farm labourer. He ran away as a youth to seek his fortune in London. Ended up living on the streets. Learnt fairly quickly that his fortune hung between his legs. He only had to look down to find it.’
‘Most recent address? Known associates?’
‘It’s all here, Inspector.’ Bittlestone produced a folded sheet which he handed to Quinn. ‘He was living in a large house in the Primrose Hill area. My informant gave the address as ninety-six Adelaide Road, though he did express some uncertainty about the number. He was sure it had a nine and a six in it. He confessed it could have been sixty-nine, though he thought not, as he would have remembered that number, he said. Possibly one hundred and ninety-six? You should have no trouble finding it, however, as it is owned by a gentleman by the name of Henry Fanshaw, who is apparently well known locally as an eccentric. The house is home to a variable number of his friends. People come and go all the time, by all accounts. What you might call a transient household. James Neville’s absence had been noted, but nothing much thought of it. It had happened before. He always came back after a few days – or possibly weeks, sometimes months – without so much as a by your leave.’
Quinn scanned the sheet. ‘Thank you. This is most helpful.’
‘Glad to be of service, I’m sure. Now, Inspector, I’m curious to know, if you don’t mind, why this crime was kept from the press.’
‘It has unusual features,’ said Quinn.
‘Such as?’
‘Please, Mr Bittlestone, bear with me a while longer. I am grateful to you for this information, truly. And I promise you that your cooperation will not be forgott
en. I am certainly inclined to overlook the events of last night. However, I must make enquiries of my own before I share anything with you. You will understand, too, that it is necessary for me to consult with my superiors before proceeding. One thing I will say: I am impressed with what you have been able to discover thus far. It speaks well for your abilities as an investigator.’
Bittlestone’s expression closed down with disappointment. ‘You seek to pay me off with flattery?’
‘I have your card. I will be in touch. Please wait to hear from me before you rush to print.’
‘I almost forgot, sir, what with the excitement of Mr Bittlestone coming in . . .’
‘Yes, Macadam, what is it?’
‘This arrived for you, sir.’ Macadam handed over a plain white envelope addressed to Inspector Quinn. There was no postage stamp affixed, suggesting that it had been delivered by hand.
The envelope contained three folded sheets, each filled with lists of names, closely written on both sides. Most of the names were titled. There was no covering note.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘A list of members of the Panther Club. It was one of the places linked to Featherly’s. I visited it last night. A strange establishment. They keep a live panther in the foyer.’
‘Takes all sorts, sir. That’s what I always say. A lot of names to go through there. You think one of them’s the killer?’
‘There is something strange about the place, that’s for sure. I didn’t like it at all. But whether they harbour a killer in their midst is another matter. However, I dare say that whenever there is a name of interest to us, it wouldn’t do any harm to check it against this list. What we must be on the lookout for is a name that occurs in more than one connection to the case.’
‘Is Bittlestone on there, sir?’
‘Bittlestone?’ Quinn checked the Bs. ‘No. I cannot see him. I suspect he is not quite sufficiently elevated to enjoy membership of this particular establishment. He’s only a Fleet Street hack, after all.’ Quinn scanned the neatly written columns with a growing sense of disappointment. He realized that a part of him had entertained the desperate hope that the killer’s name would somehow make itself known to him.
‘Something else, sir, that you might be interested in. My friend Charlie Cale got something over from your friend Doctor Bugsby.’
Quinn lay down the list of names. ‘I would hardly describe Doctor Bugsby as my friend. I have never met the man. But go on.’
‘Some fibres, sir.’
‘Rope fibres?’
‘It would seem so, sir. Hemp.’
‘That doesn’t tell us much,’ interjected Inchball gloomily. ‘He was bound with rope. The rope was made of hemp. I could have told you that without looking through a bloody microscope.’
‘Was he able to identify the particular hemp used?’ asked Quinn, ignoring Inchball’s objection.
‘You must remember that Charlie Cale’s particular speciality is tobacco, sir. He never made no claims about hemp. That’s what he wanted me to tell you, sir.’
‘Understood. But does he have anything for us at all?’
Macadam consulted a sheet of paper on his desk. ‘He was able to say that the fibres contained strands taken from both the male and female plants of the cannabis sativa.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘No, sir. It’s normal practice. Very common. You would expect to find that in every hemp rope in the land. In the world, you might even say.’
‘That gets us nowhere,’ said Inchball.
Quinn had to agree. ‘We’re not looking for the usual, Macadam. I need something that distinguishes these fibres from others.’
‘I was getting to that, sir, if you would only let me finish. Obviously, Charlie would be able to tell us more if we had had an actual length of the rope used. Quality of yarn, method of construction, number of strands, direction of cordage, et cetera . . . Unfortunately, we only have a few tiny strands to go on. Not enough to form any decisive opinions about any of that.’
‘Yes, Macadam. And so? What was he able to form decisive opinions about?’
‘Well, one thing Charlie Cale can say is that the rope was not tarred, which suggests that it was not intended for use on a ship. We may even speculate that it was bought by a gentleman with no nautical connections whatsoever. Such a fellow would naturally prefer tarred rope, and if by some accident a length of the untarred variety came into his possession, well, his first instinct would be to treat it with tar himself, in order to protect it against the elements.’
‘So it was not purchased by a sailor,’ said Inchball sourly. ‘That hardly narrows the field. There are more than enough men in the world who are not sailors.’
‘That’s not all,’ said Macadam. ‘Charlie Cale was able to detect in these fibres certain particles that are not usually connected with the manufacture of rope.’
‘Go on,’ urged Quinn. His impatience at Macadam’s leisurely delivery was overridden by a growing excitement. He had the sense that a significant revelation was about to be made.
‘Particles of lead, sir.’
‘Lead?’
‘Yes, sir. That is what Charlie Cale discovered, sir. If I might be so bold as to offer my own interpretation of his findings – Charlie Cale himself refrained from putting forward any interpretation, you understand – “That’s for you boys to do”, were his exact words to me . . . So if I might be so bold, I’d say that the rope had been kept for some time outside, in a location close to a lead works. Might I suggest we make enquiries among ropemakers and chandlers thus situated, beginning with those closest to the spot where the body was found?’
‘Excellent suggestion, Macadam.’
‘I have taken the liberty of consulting the Post Office Street Directories for Whitechapel, Limehouse and Poplar. There happen to be two lead factories close together near West India Docks. A white lead factory on Garford Street and Locke’s Lead Works on Bridge Road. There are a number of likely establishments nearby at which rope may be purchased – naturally, given the area’s nautical importance. I daresay there are many sea captains and ship’s bursars who favour these establishments with their business. But not so many individuals like the feller we are looking for – would you not agree, sir?’
‘Indeed so, Macadam. Excellent work.’ Quinn believed in stoking the rivalry between his sergeants in order to get the best out of both of them. ‘What do you say to that, Inchball? I dare say even you will agree that that’s a breakthrough.’
‘Too early to say, sir. May turn out to be a dead end. It’s often the way. Even if one of these places does remember selling rope to a non-nautical gent, there is no guarantee they will have made a note of the name, or even that they will be able to furnish us with a useful description, unless our man turns out to have an animal head, like that there picture on the cigarette tin. And if that were the case, then I dare say he might have come to someone’s attention already.’ Inchball sighed heavily, as if he shared the disappointment he imagined Macadam to be feeling. His face assumed an expression of fatalism. He evidently judged it tactful to change the subject: ‘What do you make of our friend Bittlestone, sir?’
‘My first impression is not a good one, I am bound to say. I don’t like to be presented with ultimatums. The letter left with his editor was little short of blackmail. And I suspect his friends in the Met will turn out to be bent coppers. I wouldn’t be surprised if we may add bribery to the list of his moral shortcomings.’
‘I have heard his name mentioned about the place,’ put in Macadam, who seemed not the least bit discouraged by Inchball’s pessimism. ‘Though I myself have never had any dealings with him,’ he added quickly. ‘But the word is he’s sound, as journalists go.’
Inchball allowed his face to express his scepticism; the gaping mouth and popping eyes a little overdone, Quinn thought.
‘At any rate, the Clarion is held to be one of the papers we can trust,’ continued Macadam, undeterred.
&n
bsp; ‘Let us hope so,’ said Quinn. ‘I am afraid, whether Sir Edward likes it or not, we may have to have dealings with these newspaper types.’
‘Bittlestone. Queer name, ain’t it?’ said Inchball. ‘I’ve a feeling I’ve come across it somewhere recently.’ Inchball flicked through the pages of his notepad. ‘Thought so. There’s a Mr Bittlestone listed here. One of the customers of that tobacconist’s in Burlington Arcade. He may not be a member of that toffs’ club, but he is nevertheless a smoker of the Set cigarette.’
‘Interesting,’ said Quinn. ‘Incidentally, how did you get on checking your list against the files? Anyone come up?’
‘Well, plenty of Jimmys, or Jameses, and Tommys or Thomases. Indeed, every blooming Christian name you care to mention is represented in our records of convicted buggers. But that don’t get us nowhere, do it?’
‘What about the surnames? Did any of them occur?’
‘Bittlestone, for example?’
‘Well, yes . . . but any correspondence would do.’
‘That would be too easy, wouldn’t it, sir? And if this job was easy then anyone could do it.’
‘At least we have the victim’s name now, courtesy of Bittlestone.’
‘I don’t like to feel myself too much indebted to his sort,’ said Inchball.
‘We even have an address.’ Quinn rose to his feet, bowing his head to avoid the ceiling. He crossed to Inchball’s desk and handed him Bittlestone’s sheet.
Inchball flicked the paper contemptuously. ‘Ninety-six. Sixty-nine. One hundred and ninety-six. It could even be one hundred and sixty-nine, sir, with respect and all that.’
‘That’s only four doors to knock on, Inchball. It won’t take you all day.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Macadam will be busy following up his rope lead. In the morning, I want you to go round to Adelaide Road and get statements from the occupants, once you’ve found the correct house.’ Quinn took one of the photographs of the dead man down from the wall. ‘Take this. At some point, we will need to show someone the corpse. Perhaps his landlord – if that’s the right word – will oblige. This fellow, Fanshaw. First you’d better check that name against the list of Panther Club members. I wouldn’t want to send you in there on your own if that were the case.’