The White Feather Killer

by R. N. Morris

  ‘Did you ask him about the white feather? Why did he put a white feather in her mouth?’

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth about that fucking white feather. The white feather has nothing to do with this case! When will you get that into your thick fucking head!’ To emphasize his point, Coddington struck Quinn loosely about the head. It wasn’t a forceful blow but it was enough to knock Quinn’s bowler hat on to the floor. There was a sharp intake of breath from the watching detectives, as if Coddington had finally gone beyond the pale. But he was not done yet. As Quinn’s bowler spun to a standstill, Coddington raised his foot above it to bring it down with a deliberate stamp, crushing the hat under a massive boot.

  The collective gasp that this provoked was even louder than the first. This was a department of bowler hat-wearing men. It was universally recognized that you do not mess with a chap’s hat, let alone commit an act of violence against it, whatever your beef might be with him. If there was a moment when the group’s sympathy swung away from Coddington and towards Quinn, this was it.

  ‘DCI Codd-ington!’ At what point Sir Edward Henry had entered the room, and how much of the scene he had witnessed, Quinn did not know for sure. But it was clear that he had seen enough. The small confirmatory nod from Miss Latterly, at whose desk Quinn had stopped off ten minutes or so earlier, said as much.

  Coddington’s mouth flapped uselessly beneath his walrus moustaches.

  ‘In my office, now. You too, Quinn.’

  Coddington’s face burned red as he endured Sir Edward’s roasting. Quinn kept his eyes down.

  ‘Never have I seen such a disgraceful display of unprofessional conduct. It was worse than loutish. If I had witnessed it coming from a tyro constable, I would not have credited it. But to see one of my most senior officers, a man whose behaviour ought to be held up as a model for lower ranks, to see such conduct in him – it beggars belief. There can be no excuse for it. Of course, there will have to be a disciplinary hearing, but in the meantime, DCI Coddington, you are suspended from duty. Do you have anything to say for yourself?’

  ‘I was sorely provoked, sir.’

  ‘By DCI Quinn, you mean?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘I see. So what did Quinn do to provoke you?’

  Quinn began to defend himself: ‘Sir, I—’

  Sir Edward held up his hand. ‘You’ll get your turn in a minute, Quinn. First I want to hear from Coddington.’

  ‘He was trying to undermine me.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He was talking to one of my officers. Sergeant Inchball. He was issuing commands to Sergeant Inchball and directing him to undertake investigative tasks. He was having Inchball make a telephone call.’

  ‘Is this true, Quinn?’

  ‘It is true that I was talking to Sergeant Inchball. I have just come from visiting Sergeant Macadam in hospital. I was telling Sergeant Inchball that I had learnt some important information from Sergeant Macadam. I had previously offered my assistance to DCI Coddington but he had refused it in no uncertain terms, so I knew that he would not be willing to accept it now. For that reason, I took the information to Sergeant Inchball, who is now a member of DCI Coddington’s team, in order for him to bring it into the investigation. I was not seeking to undermine DCI Coddington but to help him.’

  Coddington snorted incredulously and shook his head, as if he could not believe Sir Edward could be so easily taken in. This was clearly a mistake. It made him look like a petulant child. Not only that, he appeared to be disparaging Sir Edward.

  The commissioner was not impressed. He glared at Coddington, before demanding of Quinn: ‘What is this new information?’

  ‘Macadam has been able to positively identify his assailant.’

  ‘I see. Do we have a name?’

  ‘Felix Simpkins.’

  ‘And who is Felix Simpkins?’

  ‘A young man who lives with his mother in Godolphin Avenue and who works for Griffin Mutual as a junior clerk. He has gone missing; possibly he is on the run, or he has enrolled in the army. Inchball was checking that out when DCI Coddington came over. The rest I believe you saw.’

  ‘And is there anything that ties Felix Simpkins to Eve Cardew?’

  By now, Coddington was muttering ‘No, no, no!’ under his breath.

  ‘As I was trying to explain to DCI Coddington when he lost his temper, Simpkins was given a white feather by Eve Cardew at the Purity Meeting in Hammersmith Baptist Church. This was shortly before she disappeared. As you know, there was a white feather found in her mouth. It was because I knew that my assistance would meet with such a reaction from DCI Coddington that I chose to act through Inchball. I thought there might be more of a chance of Coddington taking it seriously if it came from someone other than me.’

  Coddington could hold in his frustration no longer. ‘Oh, I see what you’ve done here, Quinn! You and that floozy of yours.’

  ‘Silence, Coddington. Whatever DCI Quinn has done, that is nothing in comparison to your misconduct. I do not expect my senior officers to settle their differences in this playground manner! In all my years, I have never seen anything like it. Not even in India. Do you hear that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘If, as it seems, you are allowing your hostility to DCI Quinn to cloud your judgement regarding the case, then you are not fit to be in charge, that much is clear. You will be informed of the date of your hearing. In the meantime, get out of my sight.’

  Coddington’s jaw trembled with rage as he saluted.

  There was a moment of calm in his wake. Sir Edward seemed momentarily distracted, shaken by the ordeal of reprimanding one of his officers. Quinn noticed that his hands were trembling as he took the cap off a fountain pen and then stared at the nib of the pen as if unsure of its purpose. Finally, with a look of bewilderment, he replaced the cap on the pen and put it down. He then clasped his hands together and wrung them methodically. Finally, with an air of decision, he laid them flat on his desk. ‘I’m putting you in charge of the Eve Cardew investigation, Quinn.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Edward.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Just catch the bloody murderer.’ Sir Edward glanced briefly up at Quinn. There was a flash of warning in his look.

  PART VII

  Release

  17 September–18 September, 1914.

  GERMANS AT BAY ARE HURLED BACK BY BRITISH AND LOSE HEAVILY.

  War Lord to Direct Campaign Against Invading Russians.

  GREAT BATTLE TO CROSS THE AISNE.

  Daring Raid to Heligoland By British Submarine Which Sank Cruiser.

  TWO TORPEDOES SEALED THE HELA’S FATE.

  To-day brings the best of news.

  The Kaiser, having failed to find his much-desired “place in the sun” on the west, has now transferred his attentions to the east.

  There he will be the General commanding the German troops which hope to repulse the Russian millions.

  Such joyful news must bring heartfelt relief not only to the German generals who had to face the Allies’ plans and the Kaiser’s criticism at the same time, but also to the invading Russians.

  That the War Lord’s presence will have the same effect in the east as it had in the west is not an impossibility.

  Daily Mirror, Thursday, 17 September, 1914

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The custody officer gave Quinn a look that he was used to. The one that said, Are you sure about this? But to give the man his due, he did not miss a beat. He reached into a drawer and produced a fat green ledger. Before anyone was going anywhere, a release form had to be filled in and signed, in triplicate.

  As long as one of the higher-ups put his name to this madness, it was all the same to him. He just did what he was told, his expression made clear.

  Quinn signed in the appropriate places, bristling at the man’s infuriating condescension. After a while, the maintenance of scrupulous neutrality becomes offensive. And he was vaguely aware that something was going
on with the fellow’s eyebrows.

  The custody officer was a lanky, languid individual with a long moustache that had the look of being much twirled. He took his time checking the paperwork, fingering that moustache of his all the while, as if it was in his power to put the kibosh on the whole thing after all.

  ‘That seems to be in order,’ he said at last, with a faint air of disappointment. He detached the top copy of the form along its perforated edge and handed it to Quinn. The first carbon copy beneath was also detached, to be sent in the internal mail to the central office. The third copy remained in the ledger. All this was executed with painstaking deliberation on the part of the custody officer, including the repositioning of the sheet of cardboard that prevented any writing on the top form imprinting on the forms beneath. He detached himself from his stool with the same meticulous care that he had used to detach the sheets of the form. He whistled through his teeth something that was very nearly a tune, while his face assumed an absent-minded look. Then he held up one hand to point decisively at nothing, before he turned to take down a set of keys from a hook on the wall behind him. The whole pantomime was done to make the point that as far as he was concerned this whole business of releasing prisoners went very much against the grain.

  The custody suite was in the basement of New Scotland Yard. There was something satisfyingly symbolic about this. The whole weight of the law, in the shape of the very headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Force, was bearing down upon the individuals who were being held there.

  The officer led Quinn to the cells, the doors of which were painted in a bottle-green enamel. Who chooses the colours of these things? It was the first time the thought had ever occurred to Quinn, even though he had been to the cells numerous times before. It was the first time, however, since he had himself been incarcerated inside a cell, although that had been in a lunatic asylum, not a police station. The experience had inevitably changed his perspective. This particular colour was no doubt chosen for its neutrality. It was intended to neither cheer nor depress, neither to uplift with hope nor oppress with despair, those who were brought to it. It was a colour that offered nothing, like the copper’s face when Quinn had signed the form.

  The key fitted into the lock with unexpected ease. Quinn had braced himself for a last minute impediment. But the key turned the mechanism with an impressive click. The heavy metal door creaked as the custody officer pushed it open, releasing a blast of fetid air from the cell.

  Quinn had not seen William Egger since the day of his arrest. The young man lay on the narrow bunk, curled into a semi-foetal position with his back to the door. The rank smell came from a rusty bucket in the corner that served as Egger’s latrine. A small cloud of delirious flies buzzed around it.

  The light seeped in through the bottom third of a window, set high in the wall and cut off by the ceiling.

  Such was Egger’s apathy that he did not stir at the sound of the door opening. He had learnt to expect nothing from such intrusions, nothing except more questioning and whatever rough treatment Coddington had sanctioned in the interrogation. Quinn did not doubt that Coddington’s men would have pressed Egger hard for a confession. They would have had scant regard for his rights. Quinn knew how their minds worked. This was war. Egger was an enemy alien in their eyes. He had killed a young English girl. And taken a potshot at a policeman. Possibly he’d also been spying on a sensitive military base. Therefore everything was permitted. Normal rules did not apply.

  The fact that it made no sense would not have troubled them one iota.

  ‘You’re free to go.’

  When even this did not succeed in rousing him, Quinn wondered if Egger was asleep. He approached the bunk and looked down. The one eye that he could see was wide open, staring blankly at the painted brick wall inches from his face, as if he was intent on reading the graffiti that was scratched there.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? I said you can go. We have no more questions for you.’

  At last there was some movement from the young man, though it was minimal: the closing of his eyes. Then his mouth opened and he seemed to say something, but Quinn didn’t catch it. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Egger opened his eyes again. He did not turn to face Quinn, did not move at all from the bunk. He addressed his remark to the wall. ‘So that’s it? You got no more questions?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Egger forced out a laugh. It was more a sharp expulsion of bitter air. ‘So what was all that about, then?’

  ‘I have not been involved in your case so far, so …’

  At last, Egger rolled on to his back to look up at Quinn. ‘Except you was the one what pulled me in.’

  ‘It was the only option you had.’

  ‘I trusted you. Quick-fire Quinn. He’ll do right by me.’

  ‘It wasn’t down to me. If it had been, you would never have been arrested in the first place. We might have wanted to talk to you, but—’

  ‘I know what your talkin’ is!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘One man to hold me, two to lay into me with the rubber hose. You rozzers love a nice length of rubber hose, doncha?’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that you have been treated like that. If you wish to make a complaint …’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, DCI Coddington has been taken off the case. He has been suspended from duty pending an enquiry.’

  ‘You coppers is all the same.’

  ‘We make mistakes. A mistake was made here. I apologize for the distress you have suffered. It shouldn’t have happened. I am afraid these are difficult times. The war has made everyone jumpy, and your …’

  ‘What? Me being German? Is that what you’re gonna say? Only I ain’t German. Me old ma’s English. She was born in Shepherd’s Bush, same as me. I can’t speak German, ain’t never been to Germany. That don’t cut the mustard with you fellas. You already made your minds up, aincha?’

  Egger sat up on the edge of the bunk and rubbed his face with the palms of both hands.

  ‘The sergeant here will make sure that all your belongings are returned to you.’

  Egger looked down at his feet. ‘I wouldn’t mind my shoelaces back.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And the rest of it.’

  The custody officer saw his opportunity to make it clear how much he was a stickler when it came to returning effects, though he might turn a blind eye to certain other things. ‘It’s all in the safe. You’ll get everything back you signed over.’ Egger slapped his thighs and shot to his feet at last. ‘Ma’ll be at her wits’ end, she will.’ A wince of pain yanked his mouth in a wide spasm as he took his first tentative step towards the door. He blew out his cheeks and held a lingering look of recrimination on Quinn.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Quinn was under no illusions. He could expect nothing but trouble from the Coddington loyalists left on the investigation. Men like Leversedge and his cronies. In the same way that Inchball had been reporting back to him while Coddington was in charge, he was sure that the traffic in information would be going the other way now. He may have won the command, and in the process taken over Coddington’s office, but he could trust no one. Except Inchball. He could always count on Inchball.

  As for the bloody office, he didn’t want it, hadn’t asked for it, but Thompson had insisted as soon as he had heard of Sir Edward’s decision. As far as Quinn could work out, the CID chief’s intention was to make his life as difficult as possible. He knew that Quinn’s sudden ascendancy would be unpopular with the men. By rubbing their noses in it, he would stir up even greater resentment against Quinn. Quinn would fail and Thompson’s man Coddington would be reinstated.

  It was a peculiar sensation, sitting behind Coddington’s desk, looking out across the floor of the CID office towards the desk he had briefly occupied. He almost expected to see himself still sitting there, sorting through the sack of letters. He felt like an imposter, and yet it was Coddingt
on who had for so long been the one who had passed himself off as Quinn, assuming his trademark herringbone ulster, as if that was all you needed to do to become a great detective: to wear a certain type of raincoat.

  The case file pertaining to Eve Cardew’s death was open on the desk. It contained little of substance. On the top lay a one-page confession to the murder which Coddington had drawn up in William Egger’s name. It remained unsigned.

  There was a diffident tap at the door, which Quinn had left open, just as Coddington usually did. He looked up to see DI Leversedge wearing an uneasy smile, his eyes shifting nervously about. He noticed for the first time how blue Leversedge’s eyes were.

  ‘May I come in?’

  Quinn nodded, watching the other man carefully as if he might do something unpredictable and dangerous at any moment. Leversedge closed the door behind him.

  ‘I just wanted to say, it’s good to have you on the investigation, sir.’

  This was such an unexpected remark that Quinn couldn’t suppress an incredulous snort.

  ‘No, I mean it. I know we haven’t always … I haven’t always … you may not have thought that I … because of my … you may have thought that I … that I was …’

  ‘Coddington’s man.’

  ‘Yes. That. You may have thought that.’

  ‘You aren’t?’

  ‘DCI Coddington and I go back a long way. But … he’s not … well … he’s not one-tenth of the detective you are.’

  Quinn frowned. This was indeed a turn up for the books. But then again, what alternative did Leversedge have? ‘One-tenth? I wouldn’t have put it so high as that myself.’

  ‘It’s hard to put a figure on it.’ A smirk yanked up the corner of Leversedge’s mouth.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘His incompetence.’ Those blue eyes twinkled with the intoxicating allure of disloyalty.