Summon Up the Blood

by R. N. Morris

  ‘Unless it took place when you were arresting Fetherstonhaugh,’ Quinn pointed out. ‘Which would make it, essentially, an opportunistic crime. But you are right. It could be someone known to Petter. Someone who knew he would be there. Someone, therefore, who was playing games with us.’

  ‘The message . . .’ began Macadam.

  ‘To bring terrible events to a terrible issue,’ read Quinn.

  Inchball shook his head grimly. ‘Doesn’t look good for Petter,’ he concluded.

  ‘He may have written it,’ suggested Macadam, a little more brightly.

  ‘Why?’ Inchball gave the word a disparaging force.

  ‘To alert us to the fact that he had been abducted?’ suggested Macadam hopefully.

  Inchball screwed up his face. ‘Why not just write, Help! The murderer’s got me! Or even better, shout it?’

  ‘He didn’t want the murderer to know he was on to him.’

  ‘Nah, nah, nah, it don’t make sense,’ insisted Inchball dismissively. ‘I mean, if he thought it was the murderer, why would he go with him at all, even if it was someone he knew?’

  ‘Maybe he decided to play amateur detective?’ said Macadam tentatively. ‘Hence the enigmatic note. That’s how he believes detectives carry on from the books he’s read. We know he is something of a book reader.’

  ‘I believe the murderer wrote it,’ said Quinn abruptly. ‘It is a quote from De Profundis.’

  All three men lapsed into thought.

  Quinn crossed to the wall and began to take down the photographs of the existing victims, as if he were making space for those yet to come.

  The photographs were face down on the table of the interview room, spread out like cards for a tarot reading. Quinn did not need to look at them to know what they depicted, or the order in which they were placed. The images had burnt themselves into his memory.

  Fetherstonhaugh was directed into the room by Macadam.

  ‘You are in a good deal of trouble, Mr Fetherstonhaugh. Did you think we would take lightly the drugging and false imprisonment of a police officer?’

  Macadam rough-handed Fetherstonhaugh down on to the seat opposite Quinn.

  ‘I did what I had to do.’

  ‘You may be interested to know that Sergeant Inchball has recovered fully from his ordeal. Thank you for asking. He wanted to conduct the interview with you himself, but I could not allow it. We have a responsibility to protect those in our custody.’

  ‘He wants me dead.’

  ‘He’s very angry with you. You can hardly blame him. What would have happened if we hadn’t found him? He might be dead himself.’

  ‘Someone would have found him.’

  ‘Where is the scrapbook?’

  Fetherstonhaugh was momentarily thrown by the sudden change of tack. ‘It is in a safe place.’

  ‘At the Panther Club?’

  Fetherstonhaugh gave a second start of surprise.

  ‘Yes, we know all about the Panther Club. We also know about De Profundis.’

  ‘What do you mean? What about De Profundis?’

  ‘You have pasted a page from that book into your scrap collection.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Why were you at the British Museum? Had you arranged to meet someone there?’

  ‘There are always members of the Brotherhood there at that time.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The Brotherhood. I have heard about this Brotherhood of yours. What is the link between the Brotherhood and De Profundis?’

  ‘Why do you come back to that?’

  Quinn knew the time had come to reveal his hand. He turned over the first of the photographs. Without glancing down, or taking his gaze off Fetherstonhaugh in any way, he said, ‘James Neville. Perhaps you knew him better as Jimmy. A friend of yours, I believe.’

  Fetherstonhaugh blanched.

  Now was the time for Quinn to make a conscious display of sharing in what he had revealed to Fetherstonhaugh. ‘May beauty and sorrow be made one in their meaning and manifestation,’ he recited. Even knowing the nature of Neville’s vices, it was hard to look upon the face in the photograph without the word angelic coming to mind. The luminous perfection of his features was beauty; sorrow was the wound beneath them. That slit in his flesh, inhuman in its swift precision, furnished a fine glimpse into the blackest part of the human soul.

  Fetherstonhaugh flinched away from the photograph, unable to bear either Neville’s beauty or his death.

  ‘Look at it. You must look at it!’ insisted Quinn. His tone modulated from stern command to the brimming excitement of an enthusiast wishing to share his passion. His own gaze eagerly obeyed the directive, drinking in the potent image.

  Fetherstonhaugh’s head quivered as he turned back to confront the dead man’s photograph. Quinn saw the tears spill from his eyes.

  ‘There are more. You must look at them all.’

  Quinn turned over the next three photographs, revealing the other victims. Objectively, it was clear that none of the other youths was Neville’s equal in looks. It did not take a connoisseur of male beauty to see that. But their humanity was equally present, and in their lifetime had been every bit as fierce and fragile.

  ‘Eric Sealey and Vincent Unsworth. Our investigations have confirmed that they were clerks at the London Central Telegraph Office on Saint Martin’s-le-Grand. The fourth victim is an associate of theirs called Leonard Mountjoy. He did not work at the Telegraph Office but used to meet them there.’ Quinn paused as he looked at Mountjoy’s picture. ‘I had the pleasure of Mr Mountjoy’s company, briefly, on the night we believe he was killed. He picked me up outside the Criterion and took me into Green Park.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘I enjoy the occasional Set cigarette and am familiar with The Profession of Shame. I will not say it is a great work of literature, but it serves its purpose.’

  ‘You are a member of the Brotherhood!’

  ‘I have never formally been initiated.’

  ‘It does not matter. There is no need. You are a member.’

  Quinn smiled. If that was the way Fetherstonhaugh chose to think of him, then he would use it to his advantage. ‘Very well. As a member of the Brotherhood, I appeal to you to help us find the man who did this.’

  ‘I know nothing of these crimes.’

  Quinn turned over four more photographs. ‘Each of the victims was found with an empty cigarette case about their person. Inside the lid of each case was an inscription. As you can see, all the inscriptions end with the letters D.P. This one, Suffering is one very long moment, we have identified as the first line of De Profundis, which you will know is Oscar Wilde’s letter to Lord Alfred Douglas written from Reading Gaol. You will know this because Sergeant Inchball recalls reading the same quote in your scrapbook.’

  ‘But it is not the first line. There are many pages of Oscar’s complaints to Bosie before that.’

  ‘The dots?’

  Fetherstonhaugh nodded. ‘The first edition of the De Profundis was put out by Robbie Ross in 1905. It was very savagely abridged. He removed a lot of material that was particular to Oscar’s relationship with Bosie. Perhaps he feared Bosie’s reaction. Or perhaps he was worried that it made Oscar appear petty and self-pitying. A revised edition appeared a few years later with some additional material, but it was not until last year that the full text was finally published in English.’

  ‘I see. So we have the wrong edition. I thought as much. Where can we get a copy of the full text?’

  Fetherstonhaugh smiled ambiguously. ‘The 1913 edition is very rare. Only sixteen copies were produced.’

  ‘Sixteen? Why so few?’

  ‘It was a legal manoeuvre on Ross’s part. Bosie was threatening to publish his own version of the letter, which he claimed was his, as it was addressed to him, although Oscar had entrusted it to Ross for publication. Ross brought it out hurriedly in America, with Paul Reynolds as the publisher, simply in order to fulfil the requirements of American copyright law. Onc
e that was done, Bosie could not publish.’

  ‘What happened to the books? With so few copies produced, it should be possible to track down each one.’

  ‘Indeed. Fifteen copies were donated to libraries or given to friends of Oscar Wilde.’

  ‘And the sixteenth?’

  ‘It was put on sale in the publisher’s showroom in New York, as copyright law required. The price was fixed at five hundred dollars.’

  ‘Good grief.’

  ‘It was sold within a few days. To whom, it is not known. The purchaser paid in cash and took the book away with him.’

  ‘Have you ever seen a copy of this edition?’

  The ambiguous smile returned to Fetherstonhaugh’s face. ‘I was fortunate enough to be counted among Oscar’s friends. I have a copy at my house.’

  ‘Why did you not say so before? Macadam, tell Inchball to take a cab round to Adelaide Road to pick up this book.’ Quinn turned to Fetherstonhaugh. ‘Where will he find it?’

  ‘In the room on the left as you go in. There are bookshelves. The books are in alphabetical order, according to author’s name.’

  ‘While he’s there, he can pick up Tommy Venables. Tell him to be nice to him. Tell him to say Quentin has an important job for him. And before you go, I have a job for you too.’

  Quinn reached under his desk and pulled out a pile of newspapers. ‘Your pal Cale has confirmed that rope fibres recovered from the three latest victims are likely to have come from your rope purchased at your chandler’s in Limehouse.’ Quinn pulled out one of the papers. He turned the pages in frantic haste. At last he found what he was looking for. He took the scissors from his drawer and made a cutting. Fetherstonhaugh scrutinized the operation closely, like a surgery professor examining a student’s dissection. There was a certain impatience noticeable in his stance, as if he was desperate to snatch the scissors out of Quinn’s hands to show him how it should be done.

  ‘Therefore, I wish you to go back there to see if they can recognize their mystery toff rope buyer now.’ Quinn handed the cutting to Macadam, who hurried from the room with it.

  ‘We don’t have time to track down every owner of the extended version of De Profundis,’ said Quinn to Fetherstonhaugh. ‘But the sixteenth copy was sold in New York, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Last year?’

  ‘So I believe.’

  Quinn nodded in satisfaction. ‘While we are waiting for the outcome of those investigations, we may as well see what you can remember.’ Quinn turned over the remaining three photographs. ‘This inscription, Where there is sorrow there is holy ground, was also in the edition of De Profundis from which we were working. But the other two are not. It would be useful for us to be able to confirm if they are in the later edition.’

  Fetherstonhaugh studied the photographs. ‘To be entirely free . . . It is difficult to say with that one. It is rather a neutral phrase. You would have to check the text. But I can imagine Oscar writing that. It is a sentiment by which he aspired to live his life. And his life was his great masterpiece, you know. The other. Seek entrance to the House of Pain! Yes, I do remember that. It is the sort of phrase that sticks in the mind. You are lucky – I pride myself on my memory, you see. Of course, the truly memorable phrase from De Profundis is the one that refers to feasting with panthers.’

  ‘What is that you say?’

  ‘Oh, you know . . . it was Oscar’s description of entertaining renters. Like feasting with panthers, he said. The danger was half the excitement.’

  ‘And so we come back to the Panther Club.’

  ‘Everyone at the Panther Club holds Oscar’s memory dear.’

  Quinn nodded. ‘You realize that I must charge you for the false imprisonment of Sergeant Inchball? You will be held in custody until your appearance before magistrates on Monday morning. In the meantime, there is something you can do which may help your case. There can be no guarantees, but if you cooperate with us on this matter I feel sure that it will be taken into account when it comes to sentencing. I will certainly put in a good word for you.’

  ‘I don’t care about that. I will accept my fate, whatever it may be. However, I will do it for the Brotherhood.’

  ‘You have read the newspapers closely over the years, I believe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Quinn produced from a pocket the list of Panther Club members. A handful of names were underlined. He passed the sheets across to Fetherstonhaugh. ‘I would like you to tell me everything you can about the individuals marked.’

  ‘You wish me to inform on fellow members of the Panther Club? That would break the club’s first rule.’

  ‘Which is your greater loyalty? The one you owe to the Panther Club or the one you owe to the Brotherhood?’

  Fetherstonhaugh looked down at the papers in his hand. ‘What in particular do you wish to know?’

  Return to the Panther Club

  Quinn surrendered his bowler at the cloakroom and was given in exchange a white domino mask with trailing ribbons. Inside the mask was a number, 398, which served as a cloakroom ticket. Quinn stood patiently as Fetherstonhaugh tied it in place at the back of his head, and then reciprocated the favour. Fetherstonhaugh’s mask was black; the difference in colour was the distinction between a member and his guest.

  To see the world – or at least the interior of a particularly esoteric gentlemen’s club – through the eye slits of a moulded celluloid mask, was a disorientating experience. It felt like the closest he had yet come to putting himself inside the skin of the murderer.

  He had to move his head to look around. All the grandeur of the surroundings was reduced to a shaky, hazily edged ellipse. And so he understood that the mask worked in two ways: to conceal the identity of the wearer, but also to diminish and restrict the wearer’s perception. The peculiar focus was conducive to acts of inhuman detachment. It made him both more conscious of, and less connected to, the objects that came into his view.

  Certainly, his sense of the Panther Club was different to the last time he visited. He was there now as Fetherstonhaugh’s guest. He was no longer the unwelcome intruder. To some extent, the club had appropriated him. By putting the mask on him, it made him one of its own.

  ‘Now for your name,’ said Fetherstonhaugh.

  ‘My name?’

  ‘You cannot be called by your real name within the precincts of the club. I, for example, am known as Phaedo.’

  ‘Phaedo?’

  ‘From the Platonic dialogue. You must choose a name by which you wish to be known.’

  ‘I hadn’t really . . .’

  ‘If you cannot think of one, I will choose one for you. I have something of a talent when it comes to devising false names.’

  ‘Quentin,’ said Quinn peremptorily. ‘You may introduce me as Quentin.’

  Fetherstonhaugh seemed disappointed. ‘This way then.’

  He led Quinn back towards the snoring panther in her cage. A double staircase rose up on either side, merging into one as it reached the first landing. Through a half-open door Quinn glimpsed a large reading room. It had the good manners to conform to his idea of what the reading room of a gentlemen’s club should be, except for the fact that all the gentlemen in leather armchairs were masked.

  Quinn felt somewhat self-conscious. Unlike everyone else there, neither he nor Fetherstonhaugh were in evening dress. But the urgency of the situation had not allowed for a change of suit. Fetherstonhaugh had assured him that the lapse would be tolerated as a bohemian eccentricity. ‘We had one member who turned up once dressed as a tramp.’

  Fetherstonhaugh led him along a corridor, lined with cartoons and sketches, all portraits or caricatures of men in domino masks. Quinn stopped at one which showed the masked subject smoking a fat cigarette which had been faintly coloured yellow. The wisps of smoke formed themselves into an Egyptian-looking symbol. Quinn squinted at the signature and read it out.

  ‘Möbius?’

  ‘That is his name in here
.’

  Quinn looked down the corridor warily. ‘Lead on.’

  Quinn recognized the cigarettes the men were smoking as soon as he walked into the room. The pungent smoke was unmistakable. They could only be Sets.

  There were five men seated in front of a crackling fire. Three wore black masks; two white. Even masked, Quinn was able to identify them as Sir Michael Esslyn, Pinky – or the Marquess of Roachford, Lord Tobias Marjoribanks, and the guests in white masks, Count Erdélyi and Harry Lennox.

  Not one of them looked towards him as he slipped into the room. He stood at the threshold, apparently unseen.

  Quinn did not attempt to eavesdrop on the particulars of their conversation. He was more concerned with getting a sense of the group’s internal relationships, to see who dominated, who deferred, and what the tensions were between them.

  Sir Michael was clearly the most senior of the group, but any respect the others owed him was disguised by good-natured joshing. They reminded Quinn of a group of schoolboys being indulged by their well-liked form master. That is to say, there was a certain licence permitted, but Quinn had the sense that had he so wished, Sir Michael could have imposed a disciplined obedience to his will at any time.

  Pinky was the form joker; it was clear he did not even take himself seriously, so how could anyone else be expected to? Count Erdélyi was the studious and sensitive one, in general respected by the other boys for his cleverness, but occasionally the recipient of their contempt for his bookish ways. Lord Marjoribanks (whose name, Quinn had learnt from Fetherstonhaugh, was pronounced Marchbanks) was the troublemaker, the rebellious but gifted individual constantly testing the boundaries. Lennox, perhaps, was the new boy, a little too eager to please.

  Quinn allowed the conversation to continue for several moments, before the words he needed to say suddenly came to him: ‘It’s not as easy as you think to kill someone.’