The White Feather Killer

by R. N. Morris

  ‘Aunt Constance?’

  ‘Yes. You didn’t think I would come alone, did you? What kind of a girl do you take me for?’

  Silas was about to say, ‘I don’t take you for any kind of girl.’ But the warning glint in her eye deterred him.

  ‘Lettice has told me a lot about you.’ Aunt Constance offered this information in a tone that was on the disapproving side of ambiguous.

  ‘Lettice?’ It was only now that he realized he had never learnt her first name. To him she had always been Miss Latterly, the sentinel outside Sir Edward’s office. ‘Lettice Latterly?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ The brusqueness of her tone unnerved him. And yet he thought he detected a playful skittering in her eyes. It seemed she was pleased that he had grounds to mock her now.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with it. Your parents had every right to christen you whatever name they wished.’ He turned abruptly to her aunt. ‘What has she told you?’

  ‘Oh … oh … all sorts of things.’ Aunt Constance was suddenly breathless and vague. He noticed that she backed away from him, as if something about his manner alarmed her.

  ‘I told her that you’ve just come out of a loony bin. That’s why she insisted on coming along.’

  ‘Well, there has to be someone here!’ Aunt Constance pointed out.

  ‘Naturally,’ agreed Silas. ‘Did she tell you that I was there as part of a police operation, not as a patient?’

  ‘Oh, but it wasn’t a police operation, was it? Not an official one.’

  Silas met Lettice’s provoking hairsplitting with a dismissive shrug. ‘It’s over now at any rate.’

  ‘There are plenty who say you should still be in there.’

  ‘Lettice!’

  He rather warmed to Aunt Constance to see how indignant she was on his behalf. Although perhaps it was more that she was afraid, alert to the danger that her niece’s way of talking might provoke the lunacy in him.

  ‘Is Sir Edward one of them?’

  ‘Oh, you know that Sir Edward has always been your staunchest defender.’ After a beat, she added, ‘Against your many detractors.’ She frowned distractedly and sniffed the air like a cat. ‘Where are we going, anyhow?’

  It was a good question and one to which he had given perhaps insufficient thought.

  ‘I thought we might … eat?’ But the realization that he would also have to pick up the tab for Aunt Constance made him suddenly less keen on the idea. She looked like she could pack it away.

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Lettice gave the word a forceful emphasis, as if it were hard for her to say.

  He remembered hearing talk of a restaurant on the Strand which celebrities were known to frequent. Among its regulars were a number of notorious criminals, which was how it had come to his attention.

  ‘You don’t mind walking, do you?’

  Aunt Constance and Lettice agreed that it was a pleasant evening and a walk would be most welcome. Aunt Constance even went so far as to say, ‘We might see some soldiers.’ Her eyes shone brightly at the prospect. He could not discount the possibility that she would feel safer knowing that there were soldiers nearby.

  They headed north. Silas and Lettice fell into step side by side and Aunt Constance, remembering her role as chaperone, dropped behind. Silas glanced back and caught her pretending to be very interested in the river. ‘I’m sure this must be awfully tiresome for your aunt.’

  ‘She gets a good dinner out of it.’

  ‘Has she performed this function for you before?’

  Lettice didn’t answer, except to arch one eyebrow aggressively.

  ‘I didn’t mean to imply …’ He left that hanging.

  ‘What didn’t you mean to imply?’

  He opened his palm and grasped at nothing.

  ‘You do know that I’m teasing you?’ She watched his face closely. ‘My God, you have no idea! How on earth you function as a detective I shall never know. I thought detectives were supposed to be skilled at reading people.’

  ‘There are other skills.’

  ‘Oh, you mean shooting people.’

  ‘I … that has been overstated. By the press. In this last case, I shot no one.’

  ‘Well done you.’

  ‘It wasn’t that hard. They don’t allow guns inside Colney Hatch.’ He surprised himself with the joke, and was gratified to see the merest twitch of appreciation on her lips, as if she were fighting down the impulse to laugh.

  ‘I am surprised that, with your propensity for shooting, you have not thought of enlisting.’

  ‘Sir Edward would not allow it. Essential occupation, you see.’

  Lettice sighed heavily, as if disappointed. ‘Do you think it will all be over by Christmas?’

  ‘Is that what people say? I have no idea.’

  ‘You sound as if you are not interested in the war.’

  ‘I know nothing about it. They didn’t let the patients see the papers in there, you know, in case it made us agitated. When I came out, there were soldiers everywhere. It’s not that I’m not interested in the war. It’s just that I can’t quite believe in it.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You said us. In case it made us agitated.’

  He shrugged, unsure of her meaning.

  ‘I thought it was supposed to be an undercover operation. Us implies you really did see yourself as one of the inmates.’

  ‘You should be a police detective.’

  ‘I should like to be.’

  Silas smiled indulgently. ‘I like your hat. It’s very fetching.’

  A veil of disappointment descended over her expression, closing her off from him. They continued in silence until they reached the Charing Cross extension terminus, where he timidly suggested they turn left away from the river.

  She complied passively. He felt that he had lost her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not very good at this. I was trying to pay you a compliment.’

  He could see the anger in her clenched jaw.

  ‘You think it’s ridiculous that I should want to be a detective.’

  ‘It’s not ridiculous. It’s just impossible.’

  ‘Because I am a woman.’

  ‘I don’t deny that you would be as clever as any male detective – cleverer than most, I’m sure. However, there are other aspects of the job for which a woman is simply not suited. How could you give chase to a violent criminal or indeed wrestle him to the ground? And then again, some of the sights that a detective is forced to confront are not suitable for feminine eyes.’

  ‘You think our eyes are differently constructed to men’s?’

  ‘You know what I mean. It is not the eyes so much as the sensibilities, the nervous disposition … the female constitution is simply not robust enough. Besides, why would you want to expose yourself to such atrocities when there is no need? Any more than you would wish to fight in this war?’

  ‘I am not afraid of danger.’

  ‘You can only say that because you don’t know what danger is.’

  It was a moment before she replied. ‘Well, perhaps I will start a female detective agency and show all you policemen up. Like Sherlock Holmes does.’

  The restaurant was on the north side of the Strand, next to the Vaudeville Theatre, where Eliza Comes to Stay was playing. Silas began to regret his decision as they waited for Aunt Constance to catch them up. The prancing Cupids that adorned the canopy above the doorway hinted at a louche and disreputable ambience within.

  Aunt Constance read aloud the name over the menu board: ‘Romano’s? Is it foreign?’

  ‘Italian, I believe.’

  ‘Well, just so long as it’s not German. We don’t want to be poisoned.’

  ‘The food, I’m told, is very cosmopolitan.’

  Aunt Constance compressed her lips into a tight pinch of disapproval. Silas gestured for them to go inside.

  The restaurant was long and narrow, and had
the air of a place that had seen better days. A faded mural ran along one wall. It showed a wan and lifeless vista of a rocky coast and a sea so pale it was hardly there, like an invalid’s dream. The rest of the decor had a vaguely Moorish feel to it, though its shabbiness counteracted any glamour that might have been intended. The waiters appeared either elderly and tired, or young and insolent. The clientele seemed suspicious and resentful, as if they had been got there under false pretences. Which was precisely how Silas felt.

  Silas noticed a sprinkling of khaki here and there, officers enjoying a sullen last supper before the deprivations of campaigning.

  One of the elderly waiters limped over with an air of distracted bewilderment and a moustache that looked like it was made of papier-mâché. He said nothing but raised both eyebrows in enquiry.

  ‘Do you have a table? For three?’ asked Silas.

  ‘You have reservation?’

  ‘Can’t you fit us in?’

  The waiter sized them up individually, as if their actual physical dimensions were the issue.

  At the sight of Aunt Constance, his solid-looking moustache wobbled dubiously. ‘I see what I can do.’

  They watched disconsolately as he withdrew into the interior. Then they saw him called over by a man eating alone. The man was somewhere in his sixties. Something about him gave Silas the impression that he had been a regular at the restaurant for decades. He even speculated that he was the owner, having won the place in a bet. He was dressed impeccably, but this seemed to Silas to be compensating for some inner moral turpitude. The man and the waiter spoke briefly, while looking now and then in Silas’s direction. The waiter gave a final bow of assent and hurried back to Silas.

  ‘Please to come with me. You are the famous Quick-he-fire Quinn. Of course we have table.’

  Later that night, Silas Quinn let himself into a hotel room in King’s Cross. The single electric bulb flickered intermittently. When it was not on the blink it was thankfully dim, concealing in a discreet gloom the dust that filmed every surface and the large patches of damp that blossomed through the peeling wallpaper. But the darkness could not disguise the peculiar smells of a cheap hotel room. A faint smell of decay came from the fabric of the building. And, like a medium casting around for spirits, he sniffed some residual odour of every previous occupant, a patina of layered sadness.

  He was only staying here temporarily until he sorted out more permanent lodgings. It was out of the question for him to return to his last address, although he had not officially given notice there and his rent was paid up to the end of August. He must write to his landlady, Mrs Ibbott, telling her of his intentions. Also, his belongings were still there. He wasn’t in a position to collect them all yet, but there were one or two things he wanted to pick up. A change of clothes would be useful. He couldn’t carry on buying things as he needed them.

  He could not say why he had settled on a hotel in King’s Cross, except that it was cheap.

  As he sat down on the bed, the springs whined like a wounded animal and the frame bowed precariously. One of these nights it would give way completely under his weight. A moment later the whole room began to shake. He had identified two frequencies of room shakes. This one was as harsh and wild as a tornado. Often it was accompanied by the shriek of a steam whistle. The other was deeper, slower in its build-up, and more pervasive in the grip it held over the building. That was the Underground.

  Sinking back on the bed, still fully clothed, he closed his eyes. He could not say the evening had been a complete success. The menu card had offered a bewildering choice of unfamiliar dishes, all listed in French, which seemed odd given that he had assumed Romano’s to be an Italian restaurant. He had ordered a zéphir de poussin, which he suspected of being some kind of chicken dish, though he could not be entirely sure. He had not wished to reveal his ignorance by asking the waiter for guidance, instead allowing himself to be enticed by the romantic-sounding name of the dish. A dangerous system for ordering food, he realized. Lettice had opted for goulache. Aunt Constance took a long time, shaking her head and tutting, before enquiring of the young waiter who now attended them: ‘Do you not serve English food?’

  ‘If you have any special requests, I am sure Chef will be happy to oblige.’

  Special requests and obliging chefs sounded expensive to Silas. He watched nervously as Aunt Constance came to her decision. ‘Very well, I’d like a pork cutlet.’ Could have been worse!

  ‘Côtelette de porc, of course. Perhaps some pommes frites to accompany?’

  ‘What the Devil is that?’

  ‘Chips.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ She handed back the oversized menu with a flourish of satisfaction.

  It was left to Silas to select something from the wine list. He wished that he had Sergeant Macadam with him. He would have known what to order. In the end, Silas plumped for a wine which at least excelled in economy.

  The wine, a claret, arrived quickly, along with some bread rolls and curls of butter. He weighed the massive butter knife in his hand and judged its haft substantial enough, when wielded with sufficient force, to crack a child’s skull. He proposed a toast to good health and sipped at it in an exploratory way. The wine was insipid, which was probably the best that could be hoped for in the circumstances.

  His efforts to rekindle the conversation were met with little enthusiasm by Lettice, who still seemed cross with him. The arrival of a group of army officers, evidently drunk, drew their attention.

  ‘They ought to be ashamed of themselves,’ volunteered Aunt Constance. ‘They should think of the example they set. Isn’t that right, Inspector Quinn?’

  ‘They are just boys really, if you look at them. I am not surprised they need a shot of alcohol to fortify them for what is to come.’

  ‘Dutch courage? Is that what it is?’ demanded Aunt Constance. ‘Perhaps a coward would need artificial stimulants to strengthen his nerve, but a real man would not.’ The remark seemed to be directed at Silas as much as the drunken soldiers.

  The food when it came was revelatory, or at least his zéphir was. He hadn’t known what to expect. But nothing had prepared him for this frothy mousse that melted on his tongue with an explosion of flavour that was both elusive and satisfying. He suspected that it was a clever way of making a little bit of chicken – or whatever it was – go a long way. At any rate, he couldn’t imagine tasting anything more exotic or sophisticated. Lettice seemed less pleased with her dish. She ate very slowly and asked for some water to counteract the spicy flavour. He was most concerned that Aunt Constance should enjoy her cutlet and chips. She viewed the dish suspiciously when it arrived, flicking the parsley garnish away with the tip of her knife. But on the first mouthful she pronounced it ‘adequate’, so that was all right.

  His resentment, which at first he had not been aware of, had built slowly over the course of the evening. It seemed especially humiliating to be in the midst of so many couples, so clearly not married, engaged in intimate tête-à-têtes around them. Lettice Latterly was not a child. And it was insulting to him, the imputation that he could not be trusted to behave like a gentleman without the presence of some gruesome old biddy. Well, perhaps gruesome was unfair. But Aunt Constance did cast rather a shadow over the table.

  The consequence was that he grew more tongue-tied and charmless as the evening went on. By the end, it was a relief to pay the bill and be out of there. He was left wondering what on earth had possessed him to invite Miss Latterly out for the evening in the first place. No doubt he had done it when the balance of his mind was disturbed.

  He had walked them to Waterloo, from whence they took their train to Wimbledon. So, she lived in Wimbledon and her Christian name was Lettice. But really, apart from the fact that she had some extraordinary ideas about female detectives, that was all he knew about her.

  Then, just when he had been ready to turn away and put the whole thing down to experience, he caught her half-apologetic, half-teasing smile throu
gh the grimy carriage window.

  THREE

  Felix Simpkins returned to the recruitment station in Great Scotland Yard every lunchtime for the next two weeks. Although the numbers fluctuated day by day, after Lord Kitchener’s call for volunteers on 7 August there were generally more men than even on that first day. It must have been a streak of masochism that brought him back so many times. Every day he told himself that this would be the day he would enlist. And every day, he failed. There was always some excuse that let him off the hook: Mr Birtwistle’s growing desperation, they were snowed under with work, he couldn’t spare a single one of them; Mother’s fears and tears, her hysterical pleas, how could he think of abandoning her, with her weak heart it would kill her; and then there was the rumour he had heard that there was no point enlisting as it would take at least six months to train up the raw recruits and the war would be over before they were needed.

  Deep down he knew that they were all equally specious. Every time he failed to enlist for one reason, and one reason alone. Because he was a coward.

  This realization came to him anew, and with a fresh flush of shame, each time. And each time he vowed that this would be the last occasion. He would not subject himself to this humiliation any more.

  He remembered back to a time in his school career, when he had somehow landed a part in the play. He was the third or possibly fourth senator in Julius Caesar. He learnt his one line and conscientiously attended every rehearsal, even the dress. But at the last minute, on the day of the opening night, he had been struck down with a mysterious belly ache. The pain was real, he was sure, and it was Mother who had kept him at home for three days, which just happened to be the extent of the play’s run.

  It was awfully bad form to let the other chaps down, not to mention Mr Lomax, the master who was producing it. He was pretty sure he had protested. Pleaded to be allowed to go to school. Or possibly he had known it would be to no avail. Mother had said, ‘If you are ill, you are ill.’