by R. N. Morris
The youth lay like an unwrapped parcel on the dissecting table. A gift; the killer’s gift to the world.
Quinn had seen enough. As he stood up to leave, he felt something fall from his lap. Looking down, he saw his hat roll away from his feet.
Panic
He felt the dryness in his throat before he came to.
He felt it as a painful contraction of the darkness in which he was suspended. In fact, the tightness intensified at various points of his dimly growing awareness of himself. He felt the pain before he knew who he was. Or where he was. Or how he came to be there.
He felt himself trapped by the heaviest weight he had ever borne: some part of the darkness that had the weight of infinity bearing down on it. Some part of the darkness that was inside him. He mustered his strength to move this great weight but was defeated by the effort.
The darkness punished him. It pinched and bit him. It forced its invisible claws into him and scratched.
It pressed down on him from above. Beneath him, it formed itself into something solid and unyielding, a cold, hard, uncompromising otherness against which he began to sense the edges of his being. There was no comfort in this burgeoning awareness. Only pain.
He tried to swallow but could not. He realized that the great weight he had struggled to move was his tongue. But there was something else pushing down on that. Something in his mouth.
He opened his eyes. The darkness changed, became edged with the possibility of light. But it was still darkness.
He wondered if he were dead. The pain suggested he was not.
No, it was simply that he had been blindfolded. And when he tried to move a hand to pull the blindfold away, he discovered that his hands had been bound behind his back.
He was lying on his side, he realized. He felt the boards against his cheek. His left arm was numb, trapped under the weight of his body. The other arm was twisted round uncomfortably by the binding.
His knees were pulled up. Straightening his legs, he realized that he had been bound at the ankles too.
He rolled over on to his back. He tried kicking his legs apart. Put all his tensioned strength into the effort. His body rocked blindly in a great upheaval of writhing, but caused barely a ripple in the darkness. His bonds had been tightly knotted.
He was trussed up good and proper. The queer snob had got the better of him, all right.
It was then that Inchball gave some thought to the acts that might have been perpetrated on him while he had lain unconscious. It almost seemed as if he felt the fellow’s hands all over him now. So vivid was the sensation that it was inconceivable that it was anything other than a memory.
His writhing became violent and convulsive, as if an electric current was being passed through him.
He opened his mouth to give voice to the revulsion that racked his body. But a soft spreading weight pressed down on his tongue and sucked the moisture from his palate, making it impossible for him to utter anything other than a few stifled cries.
The darkness remained undisturbed.
Quinn spread the morning’s newspapers across his desk. Despite its neutral tone and scarcity of detail, the press communiqué jointly issued by Sir Edward and Sir William Nott-Bower, the commissioner of the City of London Police, had resulted in some predictably lurid headlines.
FOUR DEAD IN GHASTLY MURDERS ACROSS LONDON
GHASTLY SERIES OF MURDERS HITS CAPITAL
FOUR GHASTLY MURDERS! POLICE BAFFLED!
There was no mention of exsanguination, unless the frequent use of the word bloodthirsty was to be taken as a reference to it. The Clarion had managed to work it into a headline: BLOODTHIRSTY MURDERER WREAKS HAVOC IN GHASTLY TRAIL OF DEATH. given the method of dispatch, this was unexceptionable. However, Quinn baulked at their description of the victims as ‘pallid youths’.
At least they did not attempt to make any coded allusions to unnatural sexual practices – not so far as Quinn could detect, at any rate. However, there seemed little doubt now that there was a homosexual aspect to the crimes. Dr Yelland’s report had arrived on Quinn’s desk first thing that morning. The presence of seminal deposits in the rectums of the three latest victims confirmed that they too had been recently sodomized.
Even without these details, the accounts were shocking enough: four violent deaths visited upon the city in close propinquity. It was deemed especially disturbing that the victims had had their throats cut. Quinn reflected that it was undoubtedly unpleasant to be murdered by any method, but the cutting of throats always seemed to release a peculiar frisson. Nightmares, haunted by razor-wielding phantoms, could no longer be contained in sleeping minds; they leached out on to the streets to fill the shadowed doorways.
Some of the papers speculated that the murders might have been carried out by criminal gangs. The cutthroat razor was held to be a favoured weapon of such types. There were dark hints about the putative criminality of the deceased in an attempt, no doubt, to reassure decent, law-abiding folk that they had nothing to fear. If it was a case of the criminal fraternity turning on itself, these events could be safely dismissed. It was almost as if they had taken place in another city, on the other side of the world.
It was made clear that little was known about the victims other than their youthfulness. No names were given, on the grounds that the police had not yet been able to establish their identities beyond doubt.
The Clarion wondered whether it was in fact a razor that had caused the fatal wounds. Could it not be a dao or a kris, or some other bladed weapon of eastern origin? For that matter, was it not well known that the Tribe of Israel used sharp knives in their ritual sacrifices?
The locations at which the bodies had been found seemed to have captured the collective imagination of Fleet Street. Certainly, it inspired the hacks when it came to the question of giving the murderer a name. The proximity to the Thames led the Daily Mail to dub him The Riverside Ripper. Quinn winced at that one. Could this killer really be described as a Ripper? Nothing had been ripped out. Slasher was more accurate, which was the word the Daily Express favoured, to whom the killer was The City Slasher.
At least there was no Queer Killer, or any mention of vampires, alliterative or otherwise.
As ever, the front page of the Illustrated Police News was given over to a pictorial representation of the salient points. The four bodies were shown in situ, in separate vignettes arranged around a silhouetted figure, presumably intended to be the murderer. The artist – on what basis, Quinn could not imagine – appeared to have given this shadowy phantom an opera cape and top hat. Quinn focused on the featureless black shape, willing an identifiable presence to step forward and reveal itself. He could not dispel the notion that the figure possessed the vague animalistic head of the Egyptian deity Set, its strange upright ears hidden beneath the top hat.
Naturally, in all papers, the police were portrayed as being utterly out of their depth. The usual appeal for members of the public who might have seen anything suspicious to come forward was held to be an admission of failure.
He could imagine how Sir Edward would receive all this. The ‘moral panic’ that he had wished to avoid was clearly under way. Well, it couldn’t be helped. The important thing now was to press on with the case and find the murderer quickly before there were any more victims.
At Quinn’s request, detectives from the City Police were making enquiries at the London Central Telegraph Office on St Martin’s-le-Grand in order to confirm Bittlestone’s identification of one of the victims as Eric Sealey, and to investigate the possibility that the other victims had some connection with the place. He was expecting their findings at any moment. Meanwhile, Macadam was in the East End pursuing his lead concerning the rope fibres. It was frustrating, to say the least, that Inchball had so far failed to report for duty this morning. Quinn was impatient to hear what he had discovered at the house on Adelaide Road. He could only think that his enquiries had resulted in another lead, which he had taken it upon himself to fo
llow up.
Quinn turned the pages of the Clarion away from its typical – and galling – subheading: QUICK-FIRE QUINN IN A QUANDARY.
His eye at last settled on a photograph in the society pages. He was drawn to it because he recognized one of the people in it as Harry Lennox. With him was a young woman with a compelling face, though whether the quality that compelled was beauty or cruelty he could not say. She was identified in the caption as Lennox’s daughter, Jane.
The third figure in the photograph was a man whose age seemed to be between that of Lennox and his daughter, though arguably closer to the former. Quinn struggled to think where he had seen this man before. According to the caption, he was Lord Tobias Marjoribanks, ‘once a noted society artist, who last year returned to these shores after a long residency in the United States of America’. Quinn thought that that ‘once’ must have hurt. However, his expression showed no sign of disappointment or rancour. If anything, he seemed rather pleased with himself. And so, if he had suffered the loss of an artistic career, the impression was that he had gained something far more valuable. Precisely what that something was, Quinn discovered when he read the short paragraph that accompanied the photograph: ‘Marjoribanks had recently become engaged to Jane Lennox’. Quinn was not surprised. Despite the disparity in their ages, they looked made for one another.
Both Lennox and Marjoribanks were dressed in the type of attire that the Illustrated Police News artist had chosen for the mysterious perpetrator. But this was not an interesting coincidence in any way, because it was the standard evening wear of the well-to-do or aristocratic male about town. What was strange, however, was how differently the garb sat on each man. On Lennox, despite his undoubted confidence and ease, for which Quinn could personally attest, the outfit appeared awkward, as if it were a costume he had hired for the occasion hurriedly, without trying on first. Quinn had the impression that not only Lennox, but everyone, would be more comfortable if he wore tweeds. Lord Marjoribanks, on the other hand, carried off the formal attire as one who had been born to it.
Quinn folded away the newspapers and spread out a street map of London. Using a red pencil, he marked with an X the locations at which the bodies had been found. The statements and police reports he had read indicated that, as with the first murder, the victims had been killed elsewhere and placed where they were discovered. The killer must have access to an efficient mode of transportation – a motor car, for example. That suggested the murderer was either wealthy enough to own a car, or someone whose job it was to drive a vehicle, whether motor-powered or horse-drawn. Quinn had always thought that driving a taxi would be the perfect occupation for a murderer. Given the multiplicity of victims, a delivery driver was also a possibility. Quinn tried to picture the three bodies piled in the back of an unknown van, thrown together in a posthumous intimacy.
Unless one assumed the presence of an accomplice, the killer must have driven himself and his dead passengers about. An accomplice could not be ruled out, but for the time being Quinn proceeded on the basis that the killer was acting alone. It was far more likely, given the particularly horrendous and shameful aspect of the crimes. That said, he knew of cases where men had come together to conspire in the commission of the most dreadful acts.
It was not known in what order the last three victims had been killed. According to Dr Yelland, their deaths occurred at approximately the same time. Quinn imagined an orgy of destruction. The killer must have picked the three youths up together. Perhaps they had even been complicit in each other’s murder. Two held the first one down while his throat was slit. Then one was persuaded to turn on his mate. The last one would be left to beg for mercy as he realized that his earlier cooperation would not save him.
It was also impossible to say in what order their bodies had been placed. However, the plotting of the marks on the map encouraged one to think of a movement from East to West. In which case, the question had to be asked: Where next?
Quinn imagined a line drawn roughly through the locations marked. Like points on a graph, they did not align exactly. However, they held together sufficiently well to suggest a consistent direction of travel. Extending this line at its westward end, the next prominent structure upon which his eye alighted was Lincoln’s Inn. Beyond that, the line took him to the British Museum.
The former might be said to stand for the state’s judicial apparatus, the latter for its cultural heritage. If Quinn was right in his theory that the murderer was in some way engaged in an attack upon the cornerstones of the Empire, these institutions might be considered plausible targets for his attention.
Where would it end? had to be the next question.
Quinn took a twelve-inch wooden ruler from his drawer. He laid it over the points and ran his finger along the edge, until it reached a rectangle of pale green at the north-west of the capital. The patch was labelled Lord’s Cricket Ground.
Macadam returned to the department around midday, carrying a coil of rope which he dropped on to Quinn’s desk. ‘A present for you, sir.’ There was an excited energy about Macadam’s eyes.
‘I take it from this that your morning has not been entirely wasted?’
Macadam smiled in acknowledgement. ‘Indeed not, sir. I made enquiries at every rope maker’s and chandler’s in the Limehouse and Poplar area. As it turned out, it was at the very first establishment I visited, Willett’s on Bridge Road, just next to the Locke’s Lead Works, that I made my discovery.’
‘Which is?’
‘Willett the chandler recalled selling a quantity of rope to a fellow whom he described as . . .’ Macadam consulted his notepad. ‘Not the usual type we gets in ’ere. I recorded his words verbatim, sir.’
‘Very good, Macadam. Kindly continue.’
‘When I asked him what was so very unusual about this fellow, he said that he was a toff. He went on to affirm that they do not get many toffs in there. In fact, he went so far as to say that he had never served a single toff in his life before this mysterious customer.’
‘Hardly surprising, given his store’s location in the East End.’
‘Indeed, sir. I asked if he could remember whether the rope he sold was tarred or untarred, and he averred that it was the latter. He further remarked that while he was out back fetching the rope, the toff must have lit up a cigarette. He particularly noticed it when he came back because he disliked the smell, which he said fair stank out his shop. I asked him if there was anything else he remembered about the cigarette, and he said that it was yeller.’ Macadam gave what Quinn assumed was an imitation of the chandler’s delivery of that word, injecting it with a forceful contempt. ‘He seemed to strongly object to the colour, but on what grounds, I could not ascertain.’
‘Sounds like it could be our man, Macadam.’
‘I took the liberty of purchasing a length of the same rope, which as you may have gathered is this here sample here. With your permission, sir, it was my intention to pass this on to my pal Charlie Cale to get him to compare it to the fibres that came from the first victim.’
‘Of course. Doctor Yelland recovered similar fibres from the other victims, which I had him send to Cale. I await his report. You could perhaps find out how he is getting on if you mean to take that rope to him. If we can link all the murders to the rope bought at your chandler’s, it would be a significant breakthrough. Especially if the chandler is able to cast light on the identity of our toff. Did he come up with a name, by any chance? A delivery address, even?’
‘Sadly, no, sir. The gentleman paid in cash and took his purchase away with him.’
‘Ah, well, it was too much to hope for, I suppose. Nonetheless, this is helping us to build up a picture. He doesn’t sound like the sort of fellow who drives a taxi or a delivery van, for instance. More like a well-to-do individual in possession of his own motor car. I have been developing the theory that the murderer must have some means of transport to convey the bodies to the various locations at which he disposes of them.’
> ‘I see, sir. That makes admirable sense.’
Quinn was appreciative of Macadam’s attempt to support and bolster him. However, the sergeant’s instinctive deference reminded Quinn of Inchball’s equally instinctive contrariness. ‘Where’s Inchball, do we know?’
‘I haven’t seen him since yesterday. Not since he went off to investigate James Neville’s last known address.’
At that moment, the look on Macadam’s face seemed to express exactly the icy dread that Quinn was suddenly feeling in the pit of his stomach.
A Sojourn in Hades
There is a limit to how much physical pain the human body can endure. Release may come through loss of consciousness, or even death. In Inchball’s case, the intense pain of his overburdened bladder found release in the simple act of letting go. While it lasted, the deep, sweet bliss overwhelmed every other sensation or consideration. But the pleasure was short-lived. Immediately after, he was forced to lie in the pool of his own urine, his crotch and thighs chilled by his sodden trousers.
As he lay there, he thought of what he would do to Fanshaw when he caught up with him. He would make of his face a bloody pulp. He knew how much these queers valued their looks.
The clawing tightness at his throat was still with him. He felt a similar but more intense contraction in his head. It was as if his brain were being wrung dry by hands with long pointed fingernails. Some residue of the drug that had been used on him still had its hooks in him. He could feel it in the queasy gaseous sensation that had replaced his internal organs. Every so often the balloon of nausea floated up inside him, pushing the membrane of its extent against Inchball’s oesophagus.
He was forced to breathe through his nose by the cloth that had been stuffed into his mouth: a cotton handkerchief, so far as he could tell. There was no possibility of keeping his mouth moist. Any saliva he produced was immediately absorbed. Indeed, it felt as though the rag had sucked all the moisture from his body, and with it every ounce of energy.