‘I don’t think the murders have anything to do with what the victims did in life. The connection is the Garraway Club – and the fact that all five knew each other.’
‘There’s also a connection with Maclean,’ mused Stead, sprouts forgotten as he turned his sharp mind to the case in hand. ‘Tait and Dickerson visited Broadmoor, where he was incarcerated; Haldane and Bowyer were members of the courts that saw him convicted; and Gurney’s bank pays the Crown’s barristers.’
‘I’m not sure Maclean is capable of working all that out,’ said Lonsdale doubtfully. ‘The man is damaged – his mind doesn’t work properly.’
‘But you’ve said that he’s been following you,’ argued Stead. ‘And possibly tried to burn down the mortuary. I rather think you might be underestimating him.’
Lonsdale was not sure what to think. ‘The man I saw could’ve been him, but it was too dark to be sure. However, I still don’t think he’s the killer. His attempt on the Queen was clumsy and open, whereas these other deaths are sly and brutal. And I doubt he would kill with a panga.’
‘He might,’ countered Stead, ‘given that no one is likely to sell him a gun. However, that isn’t the point I wanted to make. The pattern I see is that all these murders do one thing: attack our great British institutions. The Church, the law, the banks, an educational facility and the press … and the Crown, too, if Maclean is involved and we can include the attempt on the Queen. Perhaps that is the nature of the Watchers’ “unspeakable happening” – the destruction of the pillars that hold our society together.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ conceded Lonsdale, albeit reluctantly. ‘Although I think a more fruitful avenue of enquiry would be to probe the Garraway Club.’
‘Then do it,’ said Stead. ‘I want you to write something insightful on the recent Austro-German alliance this morning, then you’re free from all other assignments until Christmas. Concentrate on finding the Kumu and identifying the killer, because you’ll have no time for anything else once you take over Milner’s duties.’
On his way out, Lonsdale stopped to talk to Hulda, and cautiously repeated Stead’s order that she was to search the premises of The Illustrated London News for the missing cannibals. He expected her to be irked, but she smiled with considerable enthusiasm.
‘You don’t mind?’ he asked, surprised.
‘On the contrary, it’ll be an enjoyable challenge.’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘However, you should talk to Bradwell before doing anything else. He might be able to tell you more about Gurney – whether we really do have five victims.’
‘Already planned,’ said Lonsdale.
‘Don’t go to the mortuary, though,’ Hulda went on, as if he had not spoken. ‘He’s always at St Bartholomew’s Hospital on Monday mornings. But first, tell me what happened at the Garraway last night – other than learning about Gurney’s death. Incidentally, I was taken aback to see Burnside at the Garraway. He seems to be everywhere these days.’
‘He’s a photographer, who makes a living by taking images of important events. Of course he’s everywhere.’
‘But there haven’t been any “important events” at the Garraway – well, other than the untimely deaths of five of its members. Perhaps it’s not Maclean who’s been following us at all, but Burnside.’
Lonsdale regarded her askance. ‘Why would Burnside follow us? Besides, the man I saw was slight and dark haired. Burnside has sandy hair.’
‘Hair can be darkened with soot. It’s called donning a disguise, Lonsdale.’ Hulda raised her hands in a shrug. ‘Perhaps his appearances here, there and everywhere are innocent, but there’s something about him that makes me acutely uneasy. Him and Roth – two men whose association with the case bears careful scrutiny.’
‘Not by me,’ said Lonsdale firmly, thinking her imagination was running away with her. ‘But we only have six more days to come up with answers, so we’d better get on with it.’
Hulda nodded. ‘We’ll slip out through the back door. You probably didn’t notice, but Voules is hanging around the front.’
St Bartholomew’s Hospital was an ancient foundation in Smithfield. It was large and imposing, and could accommodate nearly seven hundred patients at any one time. Some were the wealthy clients of the city’s top surgeons, who occupied handsomely appointed private rooms, while others were paupers who were seen free of charge and housed in large wards.
Although the hospital was progressive, especially in its attitude towards and treatment of consumption, it still smelled of death, sweat, fear and dirt. The noise was colossal, too, with voices echoing around in marble halls and feet clattering. Lonsdale had visited Bradwell there before, but the pathologist had since been offered a surgical fellowship, and his haunts in the massive complex had changed.
After wandering hopelessly for a while, Lonsdale was directed to Bradwell’s new domain – one of the newer wings, which had pastoral murals on the walls and elaborately decorated ceilings, presumably so the sick would have something to stare at as they lay in their beds. A number of fashionably dressed men moved around the wards – medics monitoring their charges.
Lonsdale could not see Bradwell and was about to leave when one came to intercept him. He gaped. Bradwell wore a smart black suit, a crisp white coat, and his unruly hair was neatly brushed. He looked like a successful and affluent surgeon, rather than the harried and underpaid pathologist who examined the dead for the Metropolitan Police.
‘I have to dress well here,’ Bradwell explained, seeing his reaction. ‘Patients like their medicus to look the part and I don’t want any of them to die, just for want of a trip to the tailor. But at the mortuary … well, the dead aren’t fussy.’
‘So why persist with them?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘I imagine the pay’s better here.’
‘It is, and most of my patients thank me for my efforts, which the dead never do. But corpses teach surgeons a great deal, and I do find pathology fascinating.’
‘I’m here about Samuel Gurney,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Have you seen his body?’
‘Briefly,’ replied Bradwell. ‘I had a feeling someone would come and take it away from me before I’d finished with it, so I hastened to examine it at once.’
‘And did someone take it away?’
Bradwell nodded. ‘No more than ten minutes after it arrived, Inspector Wells appeared with an order to return it to the man’s family – an order endorsed by Commissioner Henderson, so I had no choice but to comply. However, ten minutes is a long time for a surgeon.’
‘What did you find out?’
‘That Gurney was killed in the exact same way as Dickerson and the others. Indeed, the culprit must have dropped his weapon at one point, because its bloody imprint was on the victim’s shirt. It was exactly how I drew it for you when we looked at Dickerson.’
‘The same weapon and the same modus operandi suggest the same killer.’
‘That would be the logical conclusion. And I found this.’
Bradwell reached into his pocket and withdrew a paper bag. Inside it was a long piece of grass, which he held up for Lonsdale to see. It was a pretty plant, with long, slender leaves and a head of feathery pink seeds. Lonsdale regarded it in mystification.
‘Found it where? And what’s its significance?’
‘Its significance is that I found an identical piece on Dickerson. I assumed it had fallen into his clothes by accident. But when I saw this on Gurney … well, it can’t be coincidence.’
‘Two victims, two pieces of grass,’ mused Lonsdale.
‘Five victims, four pieces of grass,’ corrected Bradwell triumphantly. ‘As you know, I have copies of the initial reports on Bowyer, Haldane and Tait – the ones my colleagues wrote before they were told to change their verdicts. There was mention of grass with the bodies of Bowyer and Haldane, too.’
‘But not Tait?’
‘No grass was recorded on Tait,’ said Bradwell. ‘Which means the doctor may have found some, but didn’t think it was worth noti
ng. I’ve written to him, to ask.’
‘Do you think the killer put them there?’
Bradwell nodded vehemently. ‘I do – it must be some sort of ritual. A calling card, if you will. He assumed that every victim would be examined by a different doctor, so the relevance of it would be missed. But he reckoned without me.’
‘And without Inspector Wells arriving ten minutes too late to stop you from examining another of his victims.’ Lonsdale took the grass and studied it carefully. ‘Is it rare or unusual?’
‘What I know about grasses can be written on the back of a Penny Lilac postage stamp. You should visit Kew Gardens. I’m sure someone there can help you.’
But Lonsdale had a better idea. The eminent gentleman-scientist Francis Galton, whom he had met on his previous case, was an acknowledged expert on grasses. It would be quicker to ask him. Eager to have answers as soon as possible, he hired one of the hospital porters to take his card to Galton’s house on Rutland Gate, with a request to call on him that evening as a matter of some urgency. Galton was old-fashioned – one did not simply arrive on his doorstep and expect to be received.
‘If it does transpire to be rare, it may lead us to the culprit,’ he said to Bradwell, ‘which begs the question as to why he left it behind. Surely, it’s an unnecessary risk?’
‘I rather think he considers us too stupid to work it out,’ replied Bradwell. ‘He has powerful connections – enough to ensure that his crimes are brushed under the carpet by no less a man than the Commissioner of Police – and his arrogance knows no bounds. I suspect this is his way of thumbing his nose at us, daring us to challenge him.’
‘Then challenge him we will,’ said Lonsdale grimly. ‘He won’t get away with this.’
Bradwell smiled. ‘Good. Will you take this grass to Peters and tell him what I’ve told you? To Peters – I don’t trust anyone else, not even Hayes.’
Although it was hardly Lonsdale’s job to run errands for Bradwell, the grass was too important to entrust to anyone else. He flagged down a hackney carriage, his thoughts racing as it rattled along the Strand and down towards 4 Whitehall Place, where the Metropolitan Police headquarters was located.
The building was not large enough for everyone who worked there, and Peters had been allocated a room so tiny that it was almost a cupboard. He shared it with four other inspectors although, as they worked different hours, there tended to be no more than two of them in it at any one time. Even so, Peters beckoned Lonsdale outside, his stony expression warning him to say nothing until they were alone. They took a tortuous route through the building, which included going through several locked doors. Finally, they emerged on to a back lane called Great Scotland Yard, which had given the place its popular name.
‘What was that about?’ asked Lonsdale, as they walked towards the Victoria Embankment.
‘Precautions,’ replied Peters shortly. ‘Now, what do you want to tell me?’
Lonsdale outlined what he had learned about the murders – and the Watchers – since they had last met, then handed over the grass. Peters examined it, then passed it back.
‘I daren’t take it,’ he said. ‘If I do, it’ll go in an evidence locker, and it won’t be safe.’
Lonsdale stared at him. ‘You have a thief in the station?’
‘The killer has considerable power and influence. If he can get Superintendent Hayes and me reassigned, and the commissioner to declare his victims dead of natural causes, he can make a piece of grass disappear.’
‘So what do you want me to do with it?’
‘Leave it with Galton. From what you say, his house is stuffed full of exotic grasses, so where better to hide this one? But for God’s sake, don’t let him lose it.’
They walked a little further, and Lonsdale turned suddenly at a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. But there was nothing to see.
‘Maclean again?’ asked Peters, who had turned with him. He was braced, and Lonsdale was under the impression that if he said yes, the inspector would hare off in pursuit.
‘It’s more likely to be Voules, who clings to me like glue. Or perhaps the man who tried to burn down the mortuary – who may be Maclean, although I don’t really think so. Why would Maclean want to burn Dickerson when Bradwell had already examined him?’
‘Maclean is insane,’ said Peters. ‘You can’t expect to understand the way he thinks. And he’s definitely in London – we’ve had confirmed reports of several sightings, although we’re nowhere close to catching him.’
‘He can’t remain at large for much longer,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Not with The Echo printing sketches of him every day.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ said Peters gloomily. ‘So, what’s your next move? You’ll ask Galton about the grass, but what else?’
‘Visit the victims’ families – assuming they’ll talk to me. They may refuse. If they do, I’ll have to tell them that five dead men in one club is suspicious, and that too many people saw Dickerson for his death to be anything but murder. Not even Commissioner Henderson can deny that.’
Peters’s smile was bitter. ‘No, he couldn’t suppress that crime as he did the others. He had no choice but to assign an officer to explore what happened to Dickerson.’
‘You and Hayes,’ said Lonsdale. ‘You attended the post-mortem and made initial enquiries.’
Peters’s expression was carefully blank again. ‘I’ve been ordered to investigate the theft of lead from churches, while Hayes is to protect the Houses of Parliament. He’s beside himself with frustration.’
‘So who is investigating Dickerson’s murder?’
‘Inspector Wells.’
‘The officer who was allocated Bowyer and Haldane,’ mused Lonsdale, ‘and who arrived at the mortuary ten minutes after Gurney and stopped Bradwell from examining him by presenting an order signed by Henderson.’
‘The very same,’ said Peters. ‘A man who stands about as much chance of finding a killer as that pigeon over there.’
‘You told me before that he’s one of Henderson’s favourites.’
‘His lickspittle,’ said Peters, with uncharacteristic venom. ‘I know for a fact that innocent people are in gaol because he’s drawn conclusions without sufficient evidence. He’s a disgrace! So, Lonsdale, the only way these five dead men will get justice is if you and Miss Friederichs provide it for them.’
‘Is Wells dangerous?’ asked Lonsdale, and shrugged when Peters turned to regard him in surprise. ‘If Hulda and I are to meddle, it would be good to know how seriously he’ll object.’
‘He wouldn’t notice anything amiss if you came up and accused him of being the killer,’ replied Peters. ‘However, that’s not to say you should be complacent. Someone arranged for the Metropolitan Police’s least competent detective to be appointed, and that person is dangerous.’
‘And you can’t help us at all?’ pressed Lonsdale.
‘I’m being closely monitored,’ replied Peters, ‘which is why we didn’t leave through the front door. I don’t want to be seen with you but, equally importantly, I don’t want you seen with me. If we meet again, remember that.’
SEVEN
The rest of Lonsdale’s day was not very productive, even though he spent a fortune on hansom cabs to zigzag him across the city, feeling that walking would take too much time.
First, he went to Gurney’s home in Finsbury Square. He was surprised that a wealthy banker should choose to live in an area that, while pleasant, was not the equal of his own lodgings in Cleveland Square. That said, Gurney’s home was by far the most extravagant in the street. Lonsdale arrived to find it in an uproar, as the bereaved family struggled to accept a steady stream of well-wishers. Lonsdale joined the end of a party of congregants from All Saints Church, walking in behind them as though he had every right to be there.
He was not entirely comfortable with what he was doing, but he need not have been concerned. Benjamin Gurney seemed interested only in explaining why his father had
elected to live on Finsbury Square – because he planned to buy every house on it, renovate them to a high standard so that ‘people of quality’ would want to live there, and thus make large sums of money.
‘For his little projects,’ sneered Benjamin disapprovingly. ‘Such as a retirement home for horses and schools for workhouse girls.’
By the time Lonsdale was able to escape, he had learned that Gurney had been both deeply religious and a resourceful entrepreneur, but that his son was an overindulged scion riding on the father’s coattails. Lonsdale asked questions about the Garraway Club, the Watchers and Maclean, but it quickly became clear that Benjamin knew nothing of them.
Next, Lonsdale went to the Bank of England on Threadneedle Street, where Gurney had worked. The dead man’s secretary agreed to an interview, and he was taken to a handsomely appointed office that reeked powerfully of dog. The secretary was a well-dressed, middle-aged man who exuded a sense of brisk efficiency. He introduced himself as Mr Salathiel Olive.
‘Sit, Dusty!’ he snapped at the animal that came to investigate Lonsdale’s legs, wagging its tail. Dusty made no effort to comply.
‘Nice dog,’ remarked Lonsdale, when they were settled on opposite sides of the desk with Dusty lying between them. ‘Yours?’
‘Mr Gurney’s,’ replied Olive. ‘Although I suppose she’ll be mine now, as his son won’t want her. He says she stinks, although I’ve never noticed any odour. Nor did Mr Gurney. Can you?’
‘Er … perhaps a little,’ replied Lonsdale, thinking he had never encountered a smellier beast. ‘Did Gurney like animals then?’
Olive smiled fondly as he nodded, and went on to depict a kinder, more gentle picture of the banker than the son had done, although there was no question that Gurney had been an astute businessman with an eye for a profit. His worthy causes included his church, prison reform and animal welfare. Lonsdale listened patiently and carefully but learned nothing to tell him why the banker had been killed. He stood to leave, thanking Olive for his time.
Watchers of the Dead Page 15