by Ray Clark
“It’s commonly known as the Holy Grail of archivists and film collectors throughout the world.” Fettle picked up a scrap of paper. “The last known record of the film existing was in the 1950s. According to what I’ve found out, an MGM vault inventory from 1955 shows the print being stored in Vault 7. In the 1960s there was a fire in Vault 7, destroying the last surviving print.”
Reilly whistled through his teeth.
“What makes it so rare and collectible?” asked Gardener, intrigued.
“Quite a lot of things, I should imagine. It was at the top of MGM’s hit parade for 1927-28.”
“Twenty-seven?” interrupted Gardener.
“Oh aye, it’s going back a bit.”
“It was a silent film, then?” asked Reilly.
“Aye,” replied Fettle. “I mean, it was one of them films that broke records. Eerie sets, and Chaney’s vampire make-up was incredible.”
“Who’s?” asked Gardener.
“Lon Chaney.”
“Vampire make-up?”
“Aye.” Fettle flicked over a couple of pages and Gardener grew intensely cold. He pulled out the picture he had of the vampire suspect in Leeds on the night Janine was killed. They were alike to the last detail.
“Who is Lon Chaney?” asked Gardener.
“You’re kidding me,” replied Fettle. “Only the greatest actor that ever lived.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of him.”
“You won’t have, will you? He was well before your time.”
“Can you recall any of his other films?”
“The two most well-known were Phantom of the Opera and The Hunchback of Notre Dame.”
“Did he star in something called A Blind Bargain?”
“I think he did,” replied Fettle.
Gardener realised he was still standing. He sat down, grabbed his mug and took a mouthful of tea. “So, what do you know about Lon Chaney?”
“He was a genius. In the early 1920s, there was a well-known saying around Hollywood, ‘Don’t step on that spider, it might be Lon Chaney’. His make-up was that good, he was known as ‘The Man of a Thousand Faces’. Both his parents were deaf, so the only way he could talk to ’em was through mime, which is where he picked up his ability to act. He was brilliant, man. His make–up, well, you’ve never seen nowt like it. He did it all himself.”
Fettle pointed to the page. “That film was just the business and he did all his own make-up. In fact, I remember reading somewhere that the film was so chilling, it inspired a murder. Some bloke in London claimed that after seeing it, he had visions of Chaney’s vampire character. It terrified him so much, that he went into an epileptic fit and killed an Irish housemaid.”
“I thought you said he played Inspector Burke.”
“He did,” replied Fettle. “He also played the vampire. Two parts. Just look at the make-up involved.”
Gardener turned to Reilly. “Well, even if we don’t know who’s doing it, we know who he’s emulating.”
“I wouldn’t say that entirely,” replied Reilly. “Remembering where we’ve just been.”
“What do you remember about A Blind Bargain?” he asked Fettle.
“Not much, I never saw that one, either.”
Fettle left the table and lunged over to the cupboard in the corner. He tossed a few books around, creating a fair amount of dust, before returning with another dog-eared copy of Film Review.
“Here we are. Another lost film, second only to London After Midnight. In fact, he played two parts again, the Mad Scientist and the Ape Man.”
“What was the film about?” asked Gardener.
“Summat about a doctor who’s experimenting on people. Apparently, the half-man half-ape is the result of one of his earlier experiments.”
“I take it all his films were silent films.”
“All except one, I think,” replied Fettle.
“In which case, the words came up on the screen if the actors spoke to each other.”
“Aye,” replied Fettle.
“You’ve no idea if a film script for these films still exists, have you?”
“You must be kidding,” said Fettle, finishing his tea. “Although I did hear talk once that there was a book about the reconstruction of the film.”
“A Blind Bargain?” asked Gardener.
“Aye,” said Fettle.
“Any idea who wrote it?”
“Haven’t a clue, sunshine.”
Gardener turned to Reilly. “Sean, make a note, see if we can find the book.”
“You reckon he’s using quotes from Chaney’s films?” asked Reilly.
“It’s looking that way,” replied Gardener.
“What quotes?” asked Fettle.
“I’m sorry, Mr Fettle, we’ve kept them from the public. You remember that day you took us into the cellars and we found a puzzle?”
“Oh aye.”
“They’re not the only ones he’s been leaving. We’ve found one-line quotes next to the bodies.”
“And you think they’re from the films?”
“Possibly,” replied Gardener.
“And if you could get film scripts you’d know for sure.”
“Maybe.”
“Do you have a copy of the quotes?”
Gardener passed over the evidence bag with the paper he’d shown to Corndell. After a couple of minutes of studying it, Fettle shook his head. “No, can’t help you there.”
“Do you know anyone who can?”
“No, afraid not. You see, most of Chaney’s films are missing, and I doubt there’s any records of the scripts lying around, they’re just too old.”
“Do you know if any of the films are available today?”
“Only way to find out is to use the internet. I dare say you might pick up The Phantom of the Opera, or The Hunchback of Notre Dame.”
“I’ll check that out,” said Reilly. “I’ll also ask Laura what she knows, or maybe who she knows. Her friend at the university might help.”
“Maybe Corndell could,” suggested Gardener.
“Who’s Corndell?” asked Fettle.
“William Henry Corndell. Do you know him?”
“Should I?” asked Fettle.
“I would have thought so,” replied Gardener, “given his pedigree.”
“Pedigree? What pedigree?” asked Fettle, taking a mouthful of fresh tea.
Gardener and Reilly told Fettle what they knew about Corndell. Fettle consulted all his Film Reviews but nothing materialised. “There’s plenty about Wallace Henry Corndell. He was a pretty prominent director.”
“Did he ever make a film called Tales From a Village Pub, starring Leonard White?” asked Gardener.
“Aye, he did, but Leonard White wasn’t the star of the film.”
“But he was in it?” asked Reilly.
“Aye. But there’s no mention of a Corndell.”
Gardener stared at Fettle. “Got another question for you. Do you know anyone connected to the London theatre scene?”
“What do you want to know?” asked Fettle.
“I want to know about William Henry Corndell. He came up here from London. Apparently he’s big in the world of theatre, writes a lot of material, and he once played the role of the Phantom before Michael Crawford.”
“I didn’t know there was anyone before Crawford,” said Fettle.
“Corndell seems to think there was,” said Reilly.
“Can you find out for me?” asked Gardener.
“Aye, I can. In fact, a mate of mine used to work backstage at Her Majesty’s. I’ll see if I can track him down, he’ll know.”
“Thanks. And while we’re on the subject of people, do you know anyone called Harry Fletcher?”
Fettle grew silent before answering. “The name rings a bell. I think he was a writer, worked for the Playhouse.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“Can’t say as I do, I haven’t seen or heard from him in ages.”
&nb
sp; “When did you last see him?” asked Gardener.
“Oh Christ, must have been ten, fifteen years ago, when he was at the Playhouse.”
“Any idea where he lived back then?” asked Gardener.
With his eyes screwed shut and his mouth agape as he thought, Fettle resembled a frog. “Sorry, Mr Gardener, I didn’t know him that well.”
“Do you know anybody who does?”
“You could talk to the people at the Playhouse, but I don’t think he’s still there.”
“He isn’t, and the people who are don’t know him, either.”
“They’ve probably changed staff since then.”
Gardener was still frustrated despite having acquired more information about the case. Someone would have to check out Lon Chaney and Corndell, all of which would take time, and there was still no real evidence as to the murderer’s identity. Which meant he could strike again, and the press would really have a field day.
As he was about to give up, Gardener had another thought. “Did Lon Chaney make a film called The Scarlet Car?”
Fettle consulted more of the Film Review books. A few more minutes passed before he eventually answered. “Aye, he did.”
“When was that?” asked Gardener.
“1917.”
“Christ,” replied Reilly. “What was that about?”
“Doesn’t say,” replied Fettle. “But you’ve gotta remember, Chaney made bloody hundreds of films. Most of ’em were little shorts, three or four reels. They weren’t all feature films, so there isn’t much information about ’em.”
“What about something called Whispering Creek?”
Fettle seemed pleased to be useful. “As in The Tragedy of Whispering Creek? That’s even further back, 1914.”
“What’s that about?” Reilly asked Gardener.
“That was the name of Corndell’s house.”
“Seems to me that this Corndell bloke has a bit of an obsession with Chaney,” said Fettle.
“That’s what worries me. On the face of it, so does the killer. He’s very good with make-up. He leaves clues, which may or may not be from the films, but I suspect they are. Even in the clues, there’s a reference to one of Chaney’s films,” said Gardener.
He rose to leave. “Okay, Mr Fettle, thanks for the information, you’ve been a great help. If you could look into what we’ve asked, I’d appreciate it.”
“No problem. I’ll give you a ring when I’ve done.”
Gardener and Reilly climbed the stairs to the stage door. Before leaving, Gardener stopped, turned, and walked back down to Fettle.
“What have you forgotten now?”
“I don’t suppose the names Rupert Julian or Wallace Worsley mean anything to you, do they?”
Fettle consulted the books again.
“I don’t think you’ll find them in there,” said Gardener.
“I think I will,” said Fettle. “They don’t sound like actors with modern names, do they?”
“Directors, from what I can gather.”
“Aye, you’re right there,” replied Fettle after scanning a few more pages. “What do you want to know?”
“The kind of stuff they’re directing at the moment?”
Fettle glanced up from the book and laughed. “You’re joking, aren’t you? They’re both dead, man. Years ago.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Despite the information they had so far received, Gardener sensed an air of trepidation descending upon the incident room. His colleagues were beginning to show signs of wear, as they always did when an investigation yielded nothing but dead ends.
On the face of it, the meeting with William Henry Corndell had proved intriguing to say the least. His knowledge of his trade may well prove valuable. He knew enough about the films and the theatre to provide a smattering of information, although Gardener had been far from satisfied, and would like to have heard more.
However, he had provided a link worth pursuing. A connection between silent films and the man they were trying to find. But was the killer really emulating a film star? If that was the case, had Fettle provided the answer in Lon Chaney? Was Corndell himself obsessed with Lon Chaney, and had simply chosen not to mention it? What about his lost films collection? What did he have in there, and did he have any of Chaney’s?
Gardener also suspected that there was a lot more to the house than met the eye, and Sean Reilly had already revealed to him that each and every one of the rooms upstairs were locked. Why was that? Surely there was little need to lock any door in your house if you lived on your own and never left. Did he have a house full of valuable items, or was he hiding something?
Although the meeting with Fettle had confirmed the link to Lon Chaney, it revealed nothing further about Corndell. Gardener was satisfied that they were searching for a man with an incredible knowledge of the film world, and very likely the actor Lon Chaney, for whatever reason. But the fact that Fettle had never heard of William Henry Corndell – given his pedigree – was interesting.
So, was Corndell who he said he was? Who he led people to believe he was? Based on a first meeting with little evidence, had they actually been talking to the maniac responsible for the two most violent murders they had ever seen? Or was Gardener on the wrong track? They had so far drawn a blank with every lead. Had he allowed himself to concentrate on someone who was perhaps mad but harmless? One way or another, he would have to incite his team into producing results before another murder was committed.
Briggs opened the door and entered the room, breaking Gardener’s train of thought. He threw a folder down on the table and immediately launched into the meeting. “Right. Let’s recap on what we already know. I’ll go first. I’ve had a lengthy meeting with Janine Harper’s mother, and the Commissioner. Neither one is pleased about what’s happened, but we have discovered that Jack Harper was her father. The same Jack Harper that served on the watch committee with Leonard White and Harry Fletcher.”
Briggs paused. “Which leaves us with one link. Your father, Stewart. So, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to have a word with him. While you might know him better than I do, I’m concerned about your involvement becoming personal.”
“It isn’t personal,” replied Gardener.
“Maybe not,” said Briggs. “But I warn you, Stewart, if the killer finds Harry Fletcher before we do, then you know as well as I do where this is going. What we need to know is why. Perhaps the only people who can tell us are your father, or Harry Fletcher.”
Gardener took over, glancing at Dave Rawson. “You spoke to Val White, Dave. Did she give you a list of her late husband’s films? Does she have an alibi for the night Janine was murdered?”
“Yes on both accounts. The list of White’s films is pretty long, and I’ve used a couple of the support officers to try and track them down, or at least people who knew White, to see if we can find any further connection.”
“Okay, and what about Val White?”
“She’d been to his funeral that day, and was at a bereavement held in his honour on the night time.”
“So, that rules her out. What about Janine’s boyfriend?” Gardener asked. “Did anyone speak to him about his movements?”
Thornton raised his hand. “I did, sir – with Anderson. Apparently, they’d had a row and he hadn’t seen or heard from her.”
“What was the row about?”
“He said it was personal,” replied Anderson.
“How personal?”
Anderson shifted about uncomfortably. “It was something to do with sex. I don’t particularly want to go any further.”
“I don’t want you to, either,” replied Gardener. “Okay, so they had a row. When was that, exactly?”
“About a week before,” said Thornton.
“And they never saw each other after?”
“No. He wanted to give her some time to cool off. That and the fact that he wasn’t sure whether or not he actually wanted to see her again.”
“Anyt
hing strike you about his nature that may lead you to think he had homicidal tendencies?” asked Gardener.
“No,” replied Anderson. “If he has, his sexual tendencies are outweighing them at the moment.”
“He was out shagging another bird that night,” said Thornton.
“And she’s confirmed, I suppose,” said Gardener.
“Oh, definitely. Three times, apparently.”
“Which rules him out and leaves us where?” asked Briggs. “I’ll tell you where, back to square one. Two murders, no witnesses, no killer, no clues.”
“Steve?” said Gardener. “Any luck with forensics? Any prints from anywhere?”
“Not yet.”
“Any results from the ESLA?”
“We haven’t done everyone, but so far we have no foot or shoe prints on there that we can’t identify.”
“In that case, check this out.” Gardener produced a polythene bag containing the paper with the quotations, which only he and Corndell had handled.
“What’s that?” asked Briggs.
“It’s a piece of paper with the quotes on. When Sean and I went to see William Henry Corndell today, I let him handle it. I’m the only other person who has.”
“Well done,” said Briggs. “How did you get on with him?”
“He’s intelligent, and he knows a lot about his trade. But I think he has a secretive side,” said Gardener.
“Don’t we all?” asked Briggs.
“I’m still not sure whether or not the whole interview was an act.”
“What are you trying to say?” asked Briggs.
“We need to take a closer look. He’s locked up inside a huge mansion that looks like a shrine to the film world. It’s full of posters and very probably props.”
“And locked rooms,” added Reilly.
“What do you mean, locked rooms? Have you been searching his house without a warrant, Reilly?”
“It wasn’t my fault, I couldn’t find the toilet.”
“Oh, Jesus,” said Briggs, running his hands down his face. “Why is it that everything he does has disaster written all over it?”
“With all due respect, sir,” said Gardener, “you’d have to see him to know what we’re talking about. He’s superstitious, although he denies it. Eccentric. He hates being challenged. Self-conscious. He was dressed all in black with a red tie. Not that that’s a problem, but you’d think he could match a few more colours together.”
