Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  He lit a cigarette and puffed contentedly. It would be good to show the newspaper reports to Northcote: another twist of the knife, aggravating the wound. Idly, he thought of his prisoner as he blew smoke rings on the air. There he was in that dark chamber below, lying on his rank bed unable to do anything but sleep and regret. In the few days he had been incarcerated in the cellar, he had regressed into a child-like moronic state. Sexton was convinced this was the result of the shock he had suffered by having his dream of freedom so brutally snatched away from him and being tethered like an animal in a dank cell. Well, in reality, Northcote had fulfilled his usefulness. There was no real point in keeping the beast alive for much longer. He would only become a nuisance, like an ill pet one had to attend to on a daily basis.

  As soon as Sexton was able to have the final pleasure of showing Northcote the newspaper story about the girl he’d killed and boast how tasty she had been, as soon as he was able to witness the wild rash emotions that this would raise within his captive, he would have done with the fellow.

  And then he would snack off him.

  FOURTEEN

  It was just before noon when I arrived back at my office following my morning labours and found a note pushed under my door. It was from David Llewellyn. It read: ‘Would really appreciate a chat. Can you make The Guardsman at one o’clock? DL’

  The Guardsman was a pub not far from Scotland Yard where David and I often met up to sup a few pints and moan about our respective investigations. I was intrigued and indeed thirsty, so I did a quick about face and headed off in the direction of that particular watering hole.

  As I pounded the dusty streets of the capital, I thought over what I had learned that morning. I had taken myself down to the War Office and made contact with an ex-client of mine, Bobby Driscol, a good-looking lad with a club foot who had been wrongly accused of being involved in a dog doping scam at White City greyhound track a few years back. I had managed to prove his innocence and as a result he’d been grateful ever since and always eager to do me a favour. He was only too happy to dig out some details for me concerning Private Malcolm Salter and his oppo Lance Corporal Marshall. In a sense, most of what I learned only confirmed what I had surmised, but it was reassuring to know I was on the right track. The two men had served with the London Regiment – but had not served for too long. The two had gone AWOL shortly after enlisting. They had joined that invisible platoon of deserters that somehow had blended back into civilian life without a trace. It always puzzled me how these men could manage to do that so effortlessly and, indeed, without conscience. They were selfishly turning their back on their country and its plight when they were needed most. I was sure that in the main it wasn’t just a matter of cowardice; these blighters wanted to be free of the regimented restraints that the life in the forces brought.

  Anyway, we now knew for certain that Annie’s son did not die in battle. This was a lie; this was her secret, which she no doubt manufactured for respectability’s sake. It would hurt her too much to admit that her son was a deserter. And, it would seem that the prodigal had returned home and was kipping down in her spare room. I was convinced that this secret was tied up with her murder. However, I found it hard to contemplate that her son was responsible for her death, but I couldn’t discount it completely for I had encountered stranger and crueller things in my career.

  I had never known The Guardsman be less than buzzing with business at lunchtime and today was no exception. As I opened the door to the saloon bar, I was met with a barrage of noise and raucous conversation from the crowd within: office workers snatching a quick dinner break, old folk whiling away their time, waiting for the war to end, soldiers, sailors and airmen on leave, along with some uniformed Yanks and various shady looking types, all enveloped in a fine mist of cigarette smoke and a web of chatter. And one other: a burly blonde-haired Welsh police inspector hunched on his usual stool at the end of the bar.

  I was early for our one o’clock appointment, so he must have been much earlier. His stiff posture and sour expression indicated that he was not a happy man. Squeezing my way through the throng, I slipped onto the stool beside him and gave him a cheery grin.

  ‘At last,’ he said grumpily.

  ‘I’m early.’

  ‘Two more pints, Arthur,’ he called the barman, who was in the middle of serving two plump ladies. Arthur nodded.’ Wait yer turn,’ he called with a grin.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘you wanted to see me. I can tell by your expression it’s not to tell me you’ve come up on the pools.’

  ‘Too bloody true. It’s bloody Ralph Northcote.’

  The name rang a tiny bell in my memory, but not loud enough to bring the fellow to mind. My expression obviously conveyed my lack of comprehension.

  ‘It was my first big case back in ’35. He’d been killing girls, this Northcote. Killing them and then eating their flesh.’

  I shuddered. Now the bell rang louder. I remembered the case. It was before I’d joined the force, before I’d lost an eye and before I knew David, but it was very big in the papers.

  ‘What about him – this Northcote?’

  ‘He’s escaped and murdered again.’

  ‘Crikey. Escaped?’

  ‘From the nut house.’ David ruffled his hair in frustration. ‘The bastard should have been strung up and then this wouldn’t have happened. All that work I did to get his conviction and then the bloody powers that be deemed he wasn’t of sound mind. Course he wasn’t of sound mind: he was a bloody murderer who ate his victims.’

  The pints arrived and I paid for them. ‘Have a gulp of this and try to calm down.’

  David did as he was told. He devoured half the glass almost in one go. ‘I had to talk to someone about it and I knew you’d understand more than any other,’ he said, at length, wiping the froth away from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  David gave me a weary smile.

  ‘Go on,’ I said, ‘give me the whole sad story.’

  And he did – from Northcote’s capture, arrest and conviction up to that very morning when he’d been examining the mutilated body of a young girl who had been savaged in exactly the same way as Northcote’s other victims.

  ‘It’s his work all right. The devil’s resumed where he left off.’

  ‘Was the girl’s handbag or purse missing?’ I asked.

  David shook his head, ‘Untouched.’

  ‘So he must be OK for money. Where’s he getting it from? Someone must be hiding him. Providing him with cash, food and shelter.’

  David curled his lip unpleasantly. ‘He caters for himself where food is concerned. But you have a point.’

  ‘Were there any other associates from his past who are likely to sympathise with him – even share his predilections…?’

  ‘Not that I know of. He was a lone wolf.’

  ‘Mmm. I see a brick wall looming ahead.’

  ‘So do I. Why do you think I’m in here drowning my sorrows?’

  ‘It seems to me your best bet is to have a long in-depth conversation with this Dr Sexton chap. If he’s been visiting Northcote on a regular basis, surely he would have learned something that would help. Some indication, some clue as to where he is and what his plans are.’

  ‘I reckon I can guess what his plans are: to kill again and have a fleshy banquet. But, you are right. Sexton seems to be my only hope for the moment.’

  ‘And where there is hope, there is a chink of light.’

  David gave me a tight grin. ‘I knew chatting to you would be good for me. Just telling you about it and expressing my frustration helps. It’s a bit like a confessional.’

  ‘Bless you, my son.’

  David laughed briefly and then he added seriously, ‘I don’t think my colleagues would fully understand what this Northcote business meant to me.’

  I understood. In this respect David and I were alike. Rightly or wrongly, we became personally involved in our cases and cared
greatly that we achieved justice and closure. David thought he’d had both with the Northcote affair but that particular rug had been well and truly dragged out from under him.

  David ordered another round. I settled for a half this time. I wasn’t in the mood for boozing. Alcohol sometimes helped me not only to relax, but also enabled my brain to see possibilities and scenarios concerning my investigations that the sober mind couldn’t – but somehow today I just didn’t fancy it. I wanted to keep a clear head.

  ‘So, how are you getting on with your little murders: the Annie Salter and Father Sanderson business,’ said David, looking and sounding more relaxed now that he’d unburdened himself to me and downed a couple of pints. ‘I’m off the case now; the Northcote business has taken priority. So come on, spill the beans.’

  Now it was my turn in the confessional. I told him all I knew so far. I saw no reason not to. I wasn’t going very far with things at the moment. Maybe he could throw me a morsel of hope too.

  When I had finished, my companion gave me a gloomy nod. ‘Difficult,’ he said slowly. ‘That Chelmsford bank job. I know a bit about that. Old Percy Herbert’s been assigned to the case. We know who the leader of the gang is.’

  ‘Well it’s Lance Corporal Marshall.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not his real name. Some of the boys at the Yard recognised him from that artist’s impression in the paper. It’s Bruce Horsefield. He did time before the war.’

  I dragged out the photograph from my wallet with Salter and his mate. ‘Is this him?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s the boy. He worked himself up from street mugging to robbing a jeweller’s shop in ’36. Got four years for that. Then he disappeared. Obviously he changed his name but not the colour of his spots. I reckon he’s a real wrong ‘un.’

  ‘And is Inspector Herbert anywhere near catching him?’

  David grinned. ‘Is he heck. Old Herbert has trouble catching a cold. I reckon Horsefield could run rings around him.’

  ‘I suppose he’s tried Horsefield’s old haunts.’

  ‘I suppose so. I don’t really know. I only pick up bits of info in the canteen but I do know that Percy ain’t making any progress.’

  ‘Somehow that does not cheer me.’

  David chewed his lip. ‘I suppose I could let you have a copy of Horsefield’s file. You might see something in there that Percy hasn’t.’

  ‘It might help.’

  ‘I shouldn’t, of course. It’s strictly against the rules, you understand.’

  ‘I understand.’

  He gave me a quick wink. ‘I’ll get a copy to you by tonight.’

  No more was said on the matter and we sat for a while in silence, two weary detectives with unpleasant loads on our shoulders, deep in our separate tunnels with no light flickering at the end. Just darkness.

  ‘Well,’ David said at length, draining his glass, ‘I either have another and fall down sozzled or get back to the office and bang my head against the wall.’ He slipped off his stool. ‘See you soon, Johnny boy. Good hunting.’ With a brief smile he turned and squeezed his way towards the door.

  I lingered over the dregs of my drink for some time mulling over the case in general and what I had learned in particular. I sketched out in my mind a rough plan of action – a very rough plan – and then I too headed for the exit and some fresh air.

  I spent the afternoon visiting another client: a simple marital job that I knew I could clear up within a week. I hated these jobs but they were my main means of earning a living – exposing some poor sod’s infidelity.

  As it was growing dusk, I found myself in Benny’s café with a mug of tea and a salt beef sandwich. We chatted for a while in a desultory fashion, but I could see the old boy was tired, so I left him to lock up and made my way home. The lunchtime beer was still sloshing unpleasantly about in my stomach and I had no desire for more.

  Arriving back at Hawke Towers, I found a brown envelope on the mat. David had been as good as his word – not that I doubted he wouldn’t be. Inside the envelope were the file notes on Bruce Horsefield aka Lance Corporal Marshall. Here then was my bedtime reading.

  FIFTEEN

  Mrs Frances Coulson had only just bid one of her gentleman callers adieu and was enjoying a cigarette and a small glass of sherry, when her mellifluous doorbell rang. A frown manifested itself on her carefully made up face. She wasn’t expecting anyone – she had no more appointments that day – and so this could only be some sort of inconvenience. As she made her way to the front door, she hoped it wasn’t that detective fellow with the eye patch. He was too inquisitive and too sharp for comfort.

  She could see a bulky shadow through the frosted glass. So it was a man.

  With some trepidation she opened the door and on seeing her visitor, her mouth dropped open.

  ‘Hello Auntie,’ said the man. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

  SIXTEEN

  ‘So what do we know about this Sexton bloke, sir?’ Sergeant Sunderland eased the car into third gear as he posed this query.

  ‘Not a lot,’ said David Llewellyn, glumly. ‘He used to be a GP but now practises as some sort of psychiatrist. I suppose there’s more money in doling pills out to the nervous and depressed. And he is supposed to be writing a book about the criminal mind.’

  ‘I could give him a few pointers on that subject,’ grinned Sunderland.

  ‘I’m sure you could, Sergeant, but I reckon the good doctor is more concerned with the causes of criminal behaviour rather than how to spot a snout at a hundred paces.’

  ‘You may be right.’

  ‘But Sexton spent a lot of time interviewing Northcote at Newfield House. He must have got to know him very well. God help us, he should be able to give us some inkling of where the bastard is now and what his plans are.’

  ‘You would hope so,’ said Sunderland without much conviction.

  * * *

  Dr Francis Sexton’s surgery was in Bedford Row, a smart thoroughfare situated between High Holborn and Theobalds Road. As Sunderland pulled the car up outside, he asked, ‘Do you want me to stay out here, sir?’

  David shook his head, ‘No, come in with me. Four ears and two brains, eh? What one of us might miss, the other should pick up. At least we can dissect things afterwards.’

  A rather matronly secretary showed the two policemen into Dr Sexton’s consulting room. He rose magisterially from behind his desk and shook Llewellyn’s hand.

  ‘I take it you’ve not caught him, then?’ he said easily as he gestured that the two men should take the seats opposite the desk.

  He was a tall man, somewhere in his late forties with a prominent nose and grizzled hair, shot with silver strands. He was, thought David, someone who was used to being in command and at complete ease with himself. He was dressed in a well-cut grey double breasted suit and had a relaxed and confident manner. The inspector gazed down at his own old baggy suit and scuffed shoes and immediately felt awkward.

  ‘No, we haven’t caught him – but I’m afraid that he has already committed murder.’

  Sexton pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Sadly, that does not surprise me. The man has an inner compulsion to kill…’

  ‘And then eat his victims.’

  ‘Yes. In hospital, drugs can sublimate the condition, keep it in check to some extent, but now he is away from any kind of control or restraint his desires will be… unfettered.’

  ‘Why does he do it?’ asked Sunderland.

  ‘That is the big question I was trying to answer by talking to him. Cannibalism – the eating of human flesh – has been with us since the dawn of time, but it is mostly a cultural phenomenon. It was often based on the belief that by eating one’s enemy you inherit his power. Humans have also indulged in the practice as a means of self preservation. In many non-European countries, it was not regarded as a sin or a crime to consume human flesh. For example in the Aztec or Mayan culture cannibalism was reserved for royalty. After a ritual human sacrifice to their
Gods, they would feast upon their victims. However, in Ralph Northcote’s case, he kills purely for pleasure and celebrates his act by devouring part of the flesh of his victim.’

  ‘For pleasure?’ said David.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then the fellow is mad.’

  ‘From our perspective, yes.’

  ‘But ours is the sane one.’

  Sexton gave the inspector an indulgent smile. ‘But who’s to say that our perspective is the correct one – the only acceptable one? Northcote just views the world from a different hilltop. As a psychiatrist I have to take the position that the mind controls the man – not morals, laws or customs, which in essence are all artificial codes imposed on us by exterior forces, created by society. I was trying to unlock the door in order to find out why his view of the world differed from the majority.’

  ‘It sounds as you feel sorry for him.’

  ‘In a way, I do. Imagine yourself trapped within a psyche that was vastly different from the accepted norm and there was nothing you could do about it. It is so much easier to give in to our natural urges than fight them. We do it all the time.’

  ‘Natural urges.’ David scowled.

  ‘To Northcote they are natural. Do you smoke, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s bad for the health, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Have you tried to give up?’

  ‘From time to time.’

  ‘But you haven’t succeeded.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No doubt the temptation to light up was too strong. You gave way to your natural urges despite the fact that you knew you’d be better off not smoking. The pleasure you receive from tobacco is greater than the concerns you have for your health. The principle is the same. Northcote has given up all attempts to stifle his appetite for murder and blood.’

  ‘I think perhaps we are wandering a little way from the purpose of this visit. Whatever weird psychological processes control Ralph Northcote, I represent the mainstream law and order of this country. In my eyes he is a violent murderer and it’s my task to find him and stop him before he takes any more lives.’